


Red on Black

by a7hena



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Drug Addiction, Eye Trauma, F/M, Fan Characters, Flashbacks, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Gore, Headcanon, Humor, M/M, Multi, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Stuffing, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Character Death, Torture, Vomiting, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:50:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 106,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a7hena/pseuds/a7hena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, I wrote a not-quite-kinky kink fic, and then it just. Kept. Going. You want a more coherent summary? Okay. Slick gains weight, characters die a lot, and Slick and Droog wrestle with their mutual, yet unrequited flushed feelings. Meanwhile, the Midnight Crew get some of the Felt on their side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Perfectly Normal Day

**Author's Note:**

> I started this prior to the Felts' reappearance in the comic with Caliborn, so I'm calling the grandfather clause card regarding romance and other subjects. I won't be using terms like "leprechaun" or concepts like charms purely for consistency's sake.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Droog gets bored. When pizzas mistakenly(?) get delivered to their hideout, he goads Slick into an eating contest. Slick gets into a habit of overindulging.

It had begun as, and continued to be, a surprisingly calm night at the Midnight Crew's hideout. Such nights were in short supply, as it were, and Droog was constantly flipping back and forth between relief and annoyance that whatever crazy event which would inevitably befall them that day was taking its sweet time. I don't care if you're not a sentient being or even a tangible object, there's no excuse for rudeness.

Droog was the first one to awaken that evening, and as such was allowed control over the newspaper first. This meant that he wouldn't have to wait for Boxcars to finish reading Dear Troll Abby or Troll Heloise, but more importantly, he could throw it away when he was done. Slick and Deuce had a tendency to fight over who got to read the funnies first. Deuce would always read them out loud, spoiling the punchlines, and Slick liked to embellish the comics with additional captions around the characters, making them appear extra buffoonish.

Boxcars was the second one to awaken that night, and contributed to the lack of discord by managing breakfast preparation. Deuce was lured into consciousness by the aroma of sizzling flesh and wiggled his way out of Slick's arms. Slick, no longer embracing a replacement for the scottie dog plushie that Droog insisted on throwing in the wash, followed suit. Thanks to the allure of Boxcars' morning cuisine, Droog did not have to plead with the others to get out of bed. Not to mention, he didn't have to remind Slick for the fiftieth time that a bowl of candy is not an adequate substitute for a bowl of cereal.

But that was just the beginning. The late afternoon, well, it was shaping up to be just as orderly. And that drove Droog absolutely batty. What's this? Slick and Boxcars want to sit on the same chair? Surely this will- oh no, wait. Slick's sitting on Boxcars' lap now. What's that? A Bilious' Witness come to visit? Ha! They always provide some MADDENING frustration! Nope, he left before Droog could even employ threats of physical violence.

The night was nearly halfway over, and nothing of note had happened, unless you were to include that fact itself. It wasn't necessarily that Droog wanted chaos, quite the opposite. Whenever chaos reared its ugly head, Droog was usually one of the first ones to correct it. He or Slick, assuming Slick wasn't distracted by a picture of a horsey or something equally inane. He pondered briefly, if the reason for the night frustrating him as it did was because a night without conflict was simply too good to be true, or because he realized that on such nights, he was no longer of use?

No matter the reason, his internal conflicts would be solved by the end of the night.

Sometime in the early morning, Droog had finally begun to accept the events of the night as something other than the universe teasing him. And no sooner than he finished with his 6:12 smoke did all his worries and trepidation throughout the night become justified. A loud thump- no, more like a crash, reverberated throughout the hideout. Droog rushed to the source of the noise, expecting a rival gang or police force. The noise was merely caused by Slick, who was now sitting amidst a pile of boxes, all previously filled to the brim, as a smirking Boxcars looked on.

"I told ya you couldn't carry all those boxes up the stairs. Yer too scrawny."  
"Shut your lips hole! No, I mean, shut your face! I could do this with my eyes closed. These stupid, weak boxes fell apart on me."  
"Right. Gotcha. The boxes are the stupid ones"  
"Damn right they are! Boxes don't even have brains. Good to know you're catching on."  
"Well, I try. Someone's gotta be the smart one."  
"Damn right th- wait, what?"  
"I didn't say nothin'."  
"...Okay."

With that, Slick was back on his feet, putting everything back together, eyes closed, and slapping Boxcars away whenever he tried to help. Droog shook his head and walked away. So Slick was at that again.

Not only was Spades Slick one of the youngest gang members on Alternia (with only Fin and Trace of The Felt being younger), he was also the youngest gang leader. On top of that, he had never had a particularly good relationship with authority figures. Slick, or to be more precise, Jack Noir, was bred, even fated to have a cushy desk job. All he ever needed would be provided for him. He never needed to apply himself. And so, it was assumed that he never would apply himself. In his adolescence, he quickly noticed the lack of respect he was getting, despite being prepped for such an important task- being the Black Queen's bitch. He reacted in kind, misbehaving and rebelling at every opportunity. Only three people showed him any level of respect: the Draconian Dignitary, the Hegemonic Brute, and the Courtyard Droll. The Brute and the Droll both believed that Jack was capable of achieving greatness. The Dignitary? Well, he treated that idea as a foregone conclusion. After being exiled together, banding together as the Midnight Crew just seemed like the next logical step.

Regardless, old habits are hard to break, and Slick was still the youngest one around. On a number of occasions, he would forget that he was the leader (usually during everyday scenarios; not during heists), and proceed to act out in an attempt to undermine the "authority" of Droog or one of his elders. Lately, his shtick had been to treat everything like a dare or a challenge. While Droog humored him at first (Slick could be rather full of himself and it was nice whenever he got knocked down a peg), he was starting to think it might be time to put a stop to it.

But how? Whenever Slick lost, he made up excuses and tried again. Whenever he won, it just encouraged him. Droog needed to figure out a way to make losing a preferable option, or make winning seem undesirable. Think. Think. Think. _Ding dong!_ Think. Thi- _Ding Dong!_ Thi- _Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding_ Dammit, how is Droog supposed to concentrate when some asshole is leaning on the doorbell? Come to think of it, why did they even install a doorbell on a manhole cover? But never mind that. It was time to teach a certain someone some manners.

It was the Fare Transporter, bearing box upon box of pizza. Strange. The rest of the Crew knew better than to order such greasy, revolting, common food when Droog was around. He had no taste for the stuff and no tolerance to see the others abuse themselves with such filth. It was bad enough that Boxcars cooked with enough lard to choke a mobster kingpin, but at least his cooking was natural. Who knew what went into this pizza?

"'Sup. I got fifteen pizzas for ya." The boy began handing over the warm, grease-soaked boxes, one by one, ignoring as Droog's legs buckled under the weight. "The works. Spicy. Deep dish. Breakfast style. With mushrooms and jalapenos- sorry, we couldn't put chocolate chips or Ritz crackers on it. Low-fat. With pepperoni. Veggie pizza. No cheese. All meat except sausage. Spinach and cheese. All meat except bacon. Aaaand the last two we couldn't understand, so we just gave you a couple plain cheese pizzas."

Droog grumbled something which was unintelligible to the boy from behind his burden.

"Er, why don't you just take those last two, free of charge?"

Once Droog got his bearings back, he paused, placed the boxes on the ground as gently as possible, paid the boy for all fifteen pizzas, and bid him good night. He was feeling uncharacteristically generous, for the boy had unintentionally given him a horrible, terrible, brilliant idea.

It was obvious where the pizzas were meant to go. The Felt all loved the stuff, but were all incredibly picky eaters. No one among them would go near a slice if it had been "contaminated" by another. And so, every so often, they would pool the money they had saved up and buy fifteen pizzas which lasted them quite a while. Well, this time they'd have to wait a bit longer. Which was all well and good. Not like they needed the extra calories. Gosh, Droog was being a downright saint tonight. But enough about the Felt. This is about the Midnight Crew, and the fact that Droog is going to solve multiple problems at once.

The timing couldn't have been more perfect. Deuce was glued to the radio. Boxcars was reading a trashy matespritship novel. All Droog had to do was find Slick and the pieces would fall into place. He found Slick approximately where he expected him, sprawled out at the top of the stairs, surrounded by boxes that were once again, open and scattered about haphazardly, but at the top of the stairs nonetheless. Droog kicked his boss in the side.

"I told that guy I could carry all these things. But I never said how many tries it'd take me."  
"Yes, I see. Good job, Spades."  
"Cute. Real cute." Slick sat up, groaning and pulling at his shoulder. "Never doing that again."  
"Then, I suppose you won't want to help me with all the pizzas boxes that just got delivered to our base?"

Slick was on his feet and taking the stairs three at a time. "Pizza? Shit, why didn't you say somethi- wait, what is this?" he stopped abruptly and wheeled around so fast it almost caused Droog to stumble backwards. "You hate pizza. What's the catch?"

For a brief moment, Droog feared everything would fall apart. Fortunately, thanks to Boxcars' monopolization of their mealtimes, the rest the Crew was not especially familiar with the restaurants that surrounded them, providing Droog with an opportunity to lie through his teeth. "I recently found a place which specializes in making healthful, organic pizzas. I thought we might sample a few. Uh, you know, so that Boxcars doesn't have to cook dinner every day."

Slick gave him an incredulous look and Droog felt a bead of sweat run down his neck. "Really? You think I'm gonna spring for some health food crap? You shouldn't have wasted your money."  
"I paid with your money."  
"What? You sonuva-" Slick grabbed Droog by the collar, but the sound of his stomach growling interrupted his train of thought. "Never mind. I'm starving. Let's get your shitty pizza. Can't be any worse than the rest of the shitty food you eat."

(Droog let that one go, but filed it under "Reasons Slick needs another good cuestick drubbing.")

They found the pizza boxes right where Droog had left them, and Slick stopped a few paces away to stare at the bounty. His face gradually transformed from a look of surprise to one of irritation and finally rage. He slowly turned in Droog's direction with a dangerous snarl.  
"Fifteen. Fifteen fuck- you know what? These had better be the best fucking pizzas on the planet or I will murder you. You hear me? Food of the god tiers or knife to the face."

Droog nodded calmly. Slick was bluffing, but still, Slick in a bad mood is a scenario one usually tries to avoid. It's not pleasant. They carried the boxes over to the designated kitchen area, with Droog carrying the majority. (Slick started to protest, but due to his aggravated shoulder, decided against it.) They placed the boxes on the tables and before they even sat down, Slick was tearing into the pizza like he hadn't eaten in days.

"This is the best fucking pizza on the planet."  
Or more like,  
"Thfh ia bef fhhing pia o da paneh."

But Droog is fluent in Slick-talking-with-his-mouth-full speech. He waited for his boss to stop chewing noisily before very pointedly humming and placing a finger to his cheek in a classic "I'm thinking of something important" demonstration. Slick took note.

"What."  
"It's just occurred to me. If we were to sample all these pizzas, that would be fifteen pieces each. Or at least, we would each have seven or eight different ones. That is, if you're up for that."  
Slick laughed a humorless laugh. "Am I up for that, he asks. Fifteen slices is nothing. and I could definitely eat more than you, Mr. Eats Like a Bird."  
"Is that so? Because you sound awfully sure of yourself, and I've noticed that the more you brag, the less justification you have for doing so," Droog egged him on. Slick slammed his hands on the table, causing some of the boxes to jump.  
"That's it. You and me. Pizza eating contest. Right now. Let's go." As if to say that it had been decided, Slick pulled out a chair and sat in it, hands balled into fists, staring at Droog impatiently. Droog had Slick right in the palm of his hand. Might as well have a little fun.  
"Care to place a small wager? Twenty-five boonbucks says I will win."  
Slick laughed again, this time with humor, but cruel nonetheless. "You bet like a gentleman. Let's make it an even fifty."

Droog nodded in consent and seated himself diagonally from Slick. It turned out to be a very informal contest. They both just started. Slick picked up the slice he had before and polished it off in no time. Droog daintily picked up his first slice and nibbled on the corner in an attempt to give the illusion of actually participating. In truth, he could have danced on the table naked and Slick wouldn't have noticed. He was too focused on competing.

Slice after slice was lost to Slick's salivating maw, victims to a surprisingly voracious appetite for someone so small. Droog entertained the notion that there might actually not be enough pizza for his plan to work, albeit jokingly. He observed as Slick dove in to get the next slice and snatched it up with great speed. He made a mental note to never get between Slick and pizza, should the occasion arise, if his wished to keep his hand. At this point, his (still first) slice was hanging limply from his hand, and no pretenses of actually competing in were place. Instead, Droog merely looked on with a disgust-fueled sense of curiosity at the display of gluttony and stubborn pride before him. Then Slick paused suddenly, and Droog put his piece back to his mouth a little too quickly and purposefully to appear casual. But Slick just thumped on his chest, belched loudly, and continued eating.

Normally, Droog would scold such bad manners, but there was no sense in distracting Slick at this point. And so it continued, with Slick gorging himself as much as Droog didn't. For a while. Slick eventually slowed down, but shouldered on. At one point, Slick was eating entirely with one hand, the other hidden under the table. Although Droog couldn't see what Slick was doing, he could hear him undoing his belt.

(The reason why was obvious enough to Droog, but it's difficult to pass up the chance to give Slick a hard time.)

"Slick, what are you doing?" he asked in the manner a parent would ask a child.  
"Taking off my belt, genius."  
"Why?" Droog continued with the same tone of voice.  
"Pants were getting tight," Slick grumbled, now aggravated that the contest had temporarily and unceremoniously been put on pause. Droog said nothing, and the silence was palpable.  
"Around my waist!" Slick continued, rolling his eyes. Droog acknowledged that with a slight hum and resumed his pseudo-eating. Slick shook his head and resumed his actual-eating, muttering before he continued, "You whip it out at the dinner table one time and you never hear the end of it."

Droog smirked to himself, amused at the lengths Slick was willing to go to get his way. Unbelievably, Slick still didn't notice (or perhaps didn't care) that Droog was still on his first slice, while Slick had long since moved onto the third box. There was one brief, peculiar moment when reaching over to grab another slice, Slick froze suddenly, a look of, "Oh fuck" befalling his face for a split second, before he shrugged and sat back, continuing his feast. Droog eyed him with confusion but didn't say anything.

Not much later, it was over. Slick leaned back, sighed contentedly, glanced over at Droog, and began to say, "Beat that!" But he didn't, because he couldn't help but notice that the piece Droog was working on looked an awful lot like the first one he had. Before he could start to put two and two together, though, he submitted to the lure of the food coma and passed out in a half-full pizza box. Droog reached over, turned Slick's head to the side so he wouldn't suffocate, then leaned back in his own seat, basking in the brief moment of silence, an extra bonus this prank had provided. He should've done this ages ago!

Droog began to fantasize about all the occasions when a satiated, placated Slick would be convenient. Perhaps when he was trying to read. Or sleep. Or take a bath. Or do absolutely anything and not have to worry about Slick doing something idiotic like nailing his hand to a wall. (Accidentally or on purpose.) But before he could get to the part in his hypothetical scenario fantasizing where he realized that the particular circumstances which just occurred were absurdly specific and not likely to happen again, he was awoken from his reverie by a barely audible whimper. Slick.

Droog knew that sound all too well. If Slick ever felt unwell or weakened, around most people he would snarl and make noises that could only be described as growling. Around Droog, on the other hand, he whimpered. It always began soft, then got louder and higher-pitched until Droog felt his ears would bleed and he finally came to Slick's aid. This time, however, horrifying realization flooded through Droog's mind as soon as he heard Slick was suffering.

_If these pizzas were meant for the Felt, and if I know them, they were, then they most likely mentioned that they live in a green mansion. There's no way that Fare Transporter could have been stupid enough to confuse our hideout, which requires going through a manhole, for a mansion. In fact, there's no way he could've confused any location with our hideout, unless, he was a plant for the Felt! But why would they send him here?_

_Of course! The pizzas are poisoned! Shit, shit shit, I just got the boss poisoned. What next, induce vomiting? No, no, that might just make it worse. Better find out what kind of poison we're dealing with. Shit, I can't think with Slick's incessant whining!_

Droog took a deep breath to calm himself and lifted Slick's face off the table. He pulled out Slick's chair and helped him to his feet.

"Hang on, Spades, everything will be fi-" he stopped his sentence prematurely when he quickly gave Slick a look-over and saw Slick's midsection. His stomach was ridiculously distended. If Droog knew what a basketball was, he would think it looked like Slick had swallowed one. Not only was the belt undone, the top button of his pants had apparently popped off at some point. Slick clutched his stomach in a protective manner and looked up at Droog with pleading eyes.

Or maybe it wasn't poison. Maybe it was just indigestion.

Droog allowed himself a small smile of relief as he led his boss, (who seemed a bit woozy and unsteady on his feet) into the designated living area. The radio was still on, and Deuce had situated himself on the nearest and comfiest couch to listen, oblivious to all other goings-on around the hideout. He did, however, hear Slick and Droog enter the room.

"Oh, hey! What's going on you guys-" Deuce stopped shortly when it became obvious to him that Slick didn't look so hot. "Oh, no, Slick! What happened to you?"  
"That's none of your concern," Droog uttered sharply. "Now move over."  
"Yes it is my concern, because I am concerned!" Deuce protested, but hopped off the couch nonetheless.  
"I fucking won is what happened," Slick grinned triumphantly, then grimaced and doubled over as pain shot through his middle. Droog caught him and led him to the couch. He placed a hand on Slick's shoulder in a show of compassion.  
"Don't move. I'll get you something,"  
"Like I wanna move. And you had better be getting me something green!"

Deuce watched the interactions between the two with delight. Often, the Midnight Crew could be downright vicious to one another. But here was a genuine example of caring. It was times like this, these showings of camaraderie, that he truly was proud to be a member of the Midnight Crew. (Well, that and all the times he got to show off his knack for demolitions.) Briefly, he wished such moments would show up more often. But then he remembered that the universe is a huge bitch bluh bluh and would just let them all get sick or injured more often. After Droog left the room, the only noise remaining was coming from the radio. Deuce figured that Slick might want some peace, and shut it off.

"Can I do anything for you?"  
"Nah, Droog's got it."  
Deuce nodded, feeling a bit melancholy. He didn't like being useless any more than Droog did, but at least the situation was under control. "Feel better, okay?"

"Heh, thanks," Slick half-smiled, and lied back, closing his eyes. Deuce took this as his cue to exit. Soon, Slick began to wish that Deuce had left the radio on, as it would have been a good distraction. Droog came back in not long after, so at least Slick wouldn't be alone. Slick frowned when he saw what Droog was carrying. A cup of tea. Droog noticed the frown.

"Sorry, but we were out of antacids. Boxcars used the rest up that last time he tried to eat Matchsticks."  
"...The objects or the guy?"  
"Both, one right after the other. Anyway, here, take it," Droog shoved the cup full of green tea in Slick's hands. Slick made a face. "It'll make you feel better."  
"I don't wanna eat or drink anything else."  
"You don't have to drink it all at once, for crying out loud. Just sip it. It aids digestion."  
Slick eyed the tea, then Droog, suspiciously. It wasn't that he was afraid of it being tainted. He was just afraid of it tasting gross. Droog picked up on that.  
"Yes, I put in a ton of honey."  
Slick perked right up at that. "Well, why didn’t you say so?" He deeply inhaled the hot beverage and gingerly took a sip. "Not bad."

Droog sat next to him and waited silently as Slick took an occasional drink. Slick was being uncharacteristically unemotive all the while. Droog honestly couldn't tell if the tea was doing any good, if it actually tasted good, or if Slick was just drinking to get Droog off his back. When Slick saw that Droog was just sitting there, watching him, he gave him a look of impatience. Droog shrugged apologetically. Slick rolled his eyes.

When he was about halfway through the cup, Slick handed it back to Droog. "I can't drink anymore, it'll start leaking out my eye sockets or something." Droog placed the cup on an end table and turned back to Slick. who grimaced again and grabbed his stomach. Droog's shoulders slumped in frustration. "Still no good?"

"I dunno," Slick hissed, "Maybe I gotta let the effects kick in."  
Droog wasn't satisfied. It was his fault Slick was in pain, and he was going to correct that. "Slick, I'm going to try something, and I need you to not stab me."  
"I don't have a knife on me. but I can't promise I won't claw you."  
"Okay," Droog leaned over and unzipped Slick's pants the rest of the way. Slick's eyes widened with surprise.  
"Whoa whoa whoa! Don't get me wrong; I am up for experimenting, but just not right now."

Droog gave Slick a deadpan look. He turned his attention back to Slick's torso and raised his shirt up. Next, he delicately placed his hands on Slick's swollen stomach and tentatively massaged. Like Droog feared, this elicited a negative response from Slick, but not necessarily in the way he expected.

"What the fuck are you doing? Treating me like a damned wriggler!"  
"Slick, please."  
"I'll bet this looks completely stupid."  
"If it's stupid and it works, then it's not stupid."  
"Hmmph."  
"You haven't told me to stop."  
"Fuck you!"

Droog resumed massaging, while Slick stared in the other direction. No, glared in the other direction. He tried to cross his arms in a display of arrogant rebelliousness but found it too awkward. Instead his arms hung by his sides, hands gripping the couch. Whether the gripping was due to annoyance or pain, Droog couldn't tell. He kind of hoped it was the former, but that had been eating at his mind for a while. Did Slick figure out what was going on? Was that why he was being so unusually curt?

"Is everything alright?" he inquired. "Besides the obvious, of course."  
Slick's upper lip turned up in a snarl. "No, it's not alright! You st-" and he was partially cut off by an unanticipated belch escaping his throat. "Ugh... those are no fun when they're not on purpose."

Droog decided to be grossed out later. It was hard to make out, but he was fairly certain that Slick had accused him of stuffing him. So Slick had realized that Droog was trying to get him to eat far more than he should. But the worst part was: Slick had a fairly high tolerance for pain and discomfort. Aside from the initial whimpering, he usually made no further complaints. It was only when he felt particularly unwell that he continued complaining. So Slick must have felt absolutely miserable.

His fingers worked on auto-pilot. His mind was going a mile a minute. There had to be some way to make it up to Slick. But what?

Misery loves company.

_Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. That is the shittiest idea. Think of something else._

Droog made the mistake of looking back at Slick's face. He saw something in his eyes he didn't like. Disappointment? No. Betrayal. In that moment, Droog knew what he had to do to make things right. He pulled his hands away and stood up.

"I'll be right back."  
"Damn right you will. This isn't over!" Slick called out as Droog returned to the kitchen.

The odor of the pathetic excuse for cuisine assaulted Droog as soon as he approached. His resolve wavered momentarily, but he had already made up his mind. He walked over to the table and scanned his options, feeling more like someone who was about to do something honorable than someone who was about to brutally punish his tongue and digestive system. He choose the piece he had initially, one from the veggie pizza. Slowly and deliberately, he placed the end in his mouth and bit down.

It. Was.

The.

Most.

FOUL tasting substance he had ever had the misfortune of consuming. Oh Godhead, the bread was fake-y with an odd aftertaste. The sauce clearly came from a can. The cheese was entirely too salty. And the whole thing was covered in a layer of grease. Even the vegetables were off, having a slightly rubbery texture. He almost gagged, but then the memory of Slick's crestfallen expression rushed through his mind. He narrowed his eyes at the pizza. It seemed to be taunting him.

_Why am I not surprised that you would put your own picky preferences over anything else, even over your boss? Your moirail? That is, if that's what you really are._

No. Droog was not going to be defeated by a figment of his imagination. With far less decorum than he was ever wont to display, he shoved the majority of the slice in his mouth and forced it down. The ungodly flavors coated his mouth and he made another mental note to brush his teeth vigorously later. For now, he'd have to settle for rinsing with some water every once in a while. And so it began, with Droog consuming large portions of the slices at a time to be done with them faster, abandoning his mission occasionally to purify his taste buds. But in little time, it wasn't just the flavor that was causing him displeasure. Slick had not just been trash talking when he commented on Droog's eating habits. After finishing merely a third slice, Droog was feeling unpleasantly full. He picked up a fourth slice and blinked at it a few times, suppressing a belch that threatened to surface. A bit panicked at that, he took a deep breath and sipped some more water. He ate more slowly then, determined to have all his hard work go to waist and not waste.

The fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh slices he ate mechanically, the flavors barely registering to him. A small advantage. He tried, but could not ignore the growing discomfort in his gut. But most likely, considering the circumstances, he wasn't supposed to ignore it. The waistband of his pants grew tighter with every slice. By the seventh, his stomach felt heavy and ached all around. He paused to rub his abused middle and ponder the situation. Did people really eat like that on occasion just because they wanted to? He could scarcely imagine it. This felt awful! But...

If Slick could eat three and a half boxes of pizzas, Droog could at least eat one. Fighting off the slumber that threatened to overtake his body, Droog finished off the seventh slice and began on the eighth and last. He was almost to the crust when he heard Slick calling out for him. It wasn't an I-want-your-attention call. It was a get-your-ass-in-here-now call. Droog slowly got up and pushed his chair in, taking the remaining crust with him.

"I'll be right there!" he called back. As he returned to the living area and sat down on the couch, he could feel Slick giving him the evil eye. He ignored that and started on the last of the crust while waiting for Slick to say whatever he was going to say. Unfortunately, Slick didn't tell him anything, he asked him something.

"What on Derse were you doing in there for so long?" Slick snapped. Droog put up a finger and shook his head. He would only degrade himself so far. Talking with his mouth full was out of the question. He swallowed and answered.  
"I'm trying to make myself sick." Another bite, and a moment of silence.  
"Why the fuck would you wanna do something like that?" Slick broke the silence.  
"So that you won't be alone in your suffering."  
"Huh? Why would you care about that?"  
Droog ate the last of the crust and wiped off his mouth. He looked over at Slick, bemused. "I got you into this whole ordeal. It's my fault you're bloated and miserable. Isn't that why you're mad?"  
Slick stared at Droog like he grew a second head, then laughed somewhat nastily. "No, you shit, I'm mad because you stiffed me! I won that contest fair and square and have yet to see one boonbuck of my winnings!"  
"Oh." Droog stared at his grease covered hands, feeling quite silly. He hiccuped unexpectedly and felt heat rising to his cheeks. Slick snickered at him.  
"Not used to eating like that, are ya?"

Droog excused himself to wash his hands and grab his wallet. He returned to the living area and forked over the cash, then fell back onto the couch next to Slick. With a devilish grin, Slick greedily pocketed the cash. He didn't bother considering whether or not it made up for the cost of the pizzas. It was the principle of the thing. Satisfied, he turned his attention to Droog, who was trying to subtly adjust the waistband of the pants and doing a bad job of it. (The being subtle part.)

"You could always loosen your belt," Slick pointed out as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Droog shook his head rapidly.  
"I'm not going to resort to that. Let me keep some dignity."  
Slick was content with that response at first, then it dawned on him. "Hey, you unzipped my pants!"  
"That's because you were busting out of them anyway, and had already lost the button. You had no more dignity to lose."  
"Oh yeah."  
"By the way, I'm not taking those things to Stitch. You'll have to learn to sew."  
"What? Hmmph, fine!" Slick crossed his arms and stuck out his chin defiantly. Droog couldn't help but laugh whenever he did that. Slick recognized it as good-natured and joined in, laughing at himself. After they calmed down, it seemed for a time that all that needed to be said was said. But, of course, that was not the truth. While Droog tried to figure out how to explain himself to Slick, he made the mistake of closing his eyes. Had he not closed his eyes, he would have seen Slick reaching his hand over towards him.

"OW! What the fuck are you doing?" Droog yelped. Slick had his hand on the other man's stomach, gripping it. He jerked back after being scolded.  
"Sheesh! I was just trying to do like you did for me!" Slick turned away, blushing furiously. Droog smiled helplessly and turned Slick toward him.  
"I appreciate the concern, but your specialty is causing pain. Stick with what you know." The understanding look in his eyes told Slick that he needn't worry about him. He tried to ignore the extra pain at his stomach, now thanks to Slick's sharp fingers, as he went back into his mind. He didn't get the chance to think for long, because Slick went ahead and asked.

"So what was this whole contest about? I mean, I know I declared it, but... there was more to it than that."  
Droog closed his eyes tightly, inhaling through his nose as he prepared to confess. "I'm going to fatten you up and murder you, then bake you into a bunch of meat pies to sell."

If the hideout had an infestation of crickets, they would be chirping.

"See, now I know you're messing with me cause if you needed a big fat guy you coulda just used Boxcars."  
"True, but perhaps now the truth won't sound so ridiculous." Slick cocked his head to the side while Droog looked for the words. "I was trying to teach you a lesson."  
"Well you're a crap teacher cause I didn't learn a damn thing."  
Droog went on as though uninterrupted. "How do I put it... Lately, you've been treating everything as a competition." He kind of wished Slick would get annoyed at that. Instead, he just looked on, patiently waiting for an explanation. It was unnerving. Droog swallowed and went on. "I'd be lying if I said it wasn't getting on my nerves, but mostly I've been worried that you might get yourself hurt."

The crickets that didn't exist resumed their not-chirping.

"Droog, I think you might be in the wrong field if you’re worried about people getting hurt."  
Pinching the bridge of his nose, the other man clarified his statement. "I mean, more hurt than necessary."  
"So... you tricked me into a situation that ended with me feeling like... this?"  
Droog looked away in embarrassment. The inflection of Slick's last question indicated that he did not mean, "How could you hurt me like this?" but rather, "How could you be so stupid?"  
"I admit, I let it go on longer than I should have."  
They were quiet again after that, as Slick soaked up this new information. "Well shit, if that's all this is about, you should've just told me! in fact, that's a rule now. No more sneaky mind games. That shit's for dames."

Droog brightened up, but remained on edge. Was his boss really going to let him off that easily? The answer: not quite. Slick apparently wasn't certain that his declaration was sinking in, and he turned Droog's face in order to look him in the eyes.

"I mean it, Diamonds. I'm not some kinda monarch lording over everything I survey. I may be the leader, but I realize this gang only works as well as it does because we all work together. If you have any complaints, I promise, I will listen. You don't have to be afraid of me." As he spoke, his hand stayed on Droog's cheek, his thumb gently brushing his cheek bone. Droog listened intently to everything his boss told him, eyes closed. He found it difficult to meet his gaze again and compromised by opening just one eye. The look Slick was giving him gave him a shudder, straight through the spine. That look was one of the most intense he'd ever seen of pure understanding— not just on Slick's face, but on anyone's face. That simple look forced Droog to remember three things.

1\. Slick is not a man who does things half-assed. Whether he's plotting heists, getting into knife fights, or playing the piano, he goes at it with gusto, displaying a passion that is downright infectious. He can be brutal and merciless to his enemies, yet compassionate to his friends, well, when the situation calls for it.

2\. For all his occasional childish behavior, Slick knows how to step up when times get tough. If not for him urging the other three to continue when they grew tired or complacent, they never would have made it out of exile. If not for him sacrificing his rations on occasion, the others would have starved out there.

3\. That look is one that Slick only gives to his closest companions.

All this reviewing of the facts therefore caused Droog to come to a revelation: Slick is not just vying for dominance. He is the pack leader. And Droog has no right to treat him like some puppy to be trained. With simultaneous feelings of pride and humility, he acknowledged the incredible privilege it was to be part of such an exclusive and peculiar group as the Midnight Crew. If he felt remorse before, it was nothing compared to the shame he felt now.

"Spades... I'm so sorry," Droog whispered, scarcely able to hold up his head. Slick pulled the taller man close and kissed him lightly on the forehead. All was forgiven.

"Now!" Slick began almost enthusiastically, managing to change the whole atmosphere of the room with a single word, "Your punishment!"  
"My what?"  
"Punishment!" Slick repeated. He twisted around so that his legs were sprawled on the couch and his back was against Droog's shoulder. "For deceiving me. Let's see. You must stay here and listen to the radio with me."  
"Listen to the radio with you?" Droog asked incredulously.  
"Yes! Do you have a hearing problem?"  
"No, no! It's just that I have things to do. Shopping, for one."  
"It can wait."  
"No it really can't." Droog began to get up and Slick extended a claw-like hand in his direction.  
"Yes, it really can."

Droog quickly sat back down. "I hope you realize that this isn't just some shopping spree for my own pleasure. It's my turn to do the weekly grocery shopping for the four of us."  
Slick literally hand-waved the issue. "Don't worry your pretty head about it. I'll do it for you tomorrow."  
"Really?" Droog was surprised, because normally Slick hated shopping. The only time he derived any pleasure from it was this one time when he hid in a clothing rack at this one store and jumped out at people who walked by. But then he nearly gave some nervous broad a heart attack and was subsequently banned from said store.  
"Yeah! And I'll get you some Swedish Fish if they're in stock. It'll be my gift to you."  
Droog racked his brain, trying to see if there was a catch. "Gift? For what?"  
"For looking out for me," Slick mumbled, his eyes beginning to close. Droog had to admit, he was a bit humbled. For the first time in the night, he felt at ease, resting on the couch next to his partner, in a strange sort of comfort and tranquility (emotional, if not physical), thanks in part to the lack of movement or sound.

Wait. That wasn't right.

"One of us is going to have to get up to turn the radio back on," Droog pointed out. He was met with a snore. Submitting to his current position for however long he was fated to be there, Droog gently pulled out his arm from where Slick had it pinned and draped it over the smaller man's chest. Once he was certain Slick was fast asleep, he surreptitiously loosened his belt by a few notches. He had intended to use this time to process the events of the night with questions such as: had any of it been worth the effort?; was today overall good or bad?; and no seriously, how the heck did they get all those pizzas? But before he could approach any conclusion, he was nodding off.


	2. Change of Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Felt (or some of them) attack the hideout. It does not end well for them.

They couldn't keep the others away forever. In time, both Boxcars and Deuce would discover the carnage wrought between the four walls of the kitchen area. At least, I am assuming there are four walls. It's entirely possible the room is in an "L" shape or an octagon or something weird. I didn't put much thought into the layout of the hideout. Where was I going with that? Oh yes, despite Droog and Slick's best efforts, their fellow Midnight Crewians, Midnight Crewites, Midnight Cr- fuck it, those other two guys, would make their way to the- oh, wait, never mind. They actually never tried to stop them. Okay then.

...

Well, excuse me for trying to insert some unnecessary suspense!

...

Okay, okay, moving on. After exiting the living area, Deuce had retired to his bedroom. That fact is irrelevant, but in case you wanted to know, there you go. He passed the time by writing polite letters declining Clover's invitations of redrom, and by setting fire to Itchy's (just to be safe). Around noon, he was spurred into leaving his room to grab a snack. Naturally and logically, upon turning on the light, he was greeted by 4 and half empty boxes of pizzas, plus ten and a half full ones. After gazing in wonder for a moment, his mouth opened wide in a euphoric smile. In one surprisingly quick motion, he did a heel turn and dashed over to Boxcars' room. Attempting to be as quiet as possible, he rapidly tapped on the door and whisper-yelled.

"Boxcars, hey, Boxcars, you've got to come see this! It's the most amazing, I mean, really, you will not believe-" The opening of the door got Deuce to pipe down. Boxcars dragged his friend inside the room, urging him to keep his voice down, as others might be sleeping.

"Right, right! Droog and the boss! Good thinking, Boxcars."  
"Yeah, I'm gonna be honest: I was more concerned with nosy neighbors callin' the cops and whining about us 'disturbing the peace.'" he framed the last phrase with air quotes, accompanied by rolling eyes.  
"Ooh, I didn't even think of that."  
"So, what's got you so excited, anyway?"  
"Well, don't freak out, but I think," Deuce paused for dramatic effect.  
"You think what?"  
"Shush! I'm pausing for dramatic effect! Okay. I think the Pizza Fairy visited us tonight!"  
Boxcars raised an eyebrow, then sighed and shook his head towards the ground. "We've been over this. There's no such thing as the 'Pizza Fairy.'"  
"You said the same thing about the Lightbulb Fairy!"  
"For the last time, Deuce, that was a firefly!"  
"Well... well never mind about that!" Deuce grabbed Boxcars' arm and headed toward the door. "You just have to see this. Then you'll understand!"  
"It's too damn late for this," Boxcars grumbled, but allowed himself to be lead to the kitchen nonetheless. They both tried to move stealthily to avoid making a racket. And honestly, they didn't do a very good job, but Slick and Droog were both out like lights, so it didn't matter.

Boxcars had a similar reaction to Deuce when he came upon the plethora of boxes. The only difference, his mouth was turned downward.

As Boxcars and Deuce tried to make sense of their discovery, the others were unaware, sleeping soundly.  
"No, you shaddup. Oliver 'n Company's greatest Troll Disney flick ever," Slick muttered, pointing angrily, his dreams invading his physical body, but beyond that, nothing.  
"Aw, what the fuck is this?" Boxcars anguished bellow echoed throughout the hideout and instantly, Slick and Droog were wide awake. Once their vascular organs came back down to a normal pace, they realized something was most definitely wrong.  
"I'll figure out what's going on and smooth things over," Slick said groggily, rubbing his eyes. Droog nodded wearily. Remembering what had happened earlier, he made a face and ran his tongue over his teeth.  
"I'm going to brush my teeth for the next hour or so." And with that, Slick and Droog headed in their respective destinations. Teeth brushing is pretty boring, so we're going to focus on Slick. Easily determining the direction of Boxcars' voice, he moved to the kitchen area and cautiously stepped inside. Boxcars was sitting at the table, his head in his arms, Deuce sat beside him and gently patted him on the shoulder.

"I just- I just don't understand, Deuce."  
"Shh, there, there, Boxcars."  
"Why would they wanna replace me?"  
"Now, now, I'm sure they didn't mean anything by it."  
"Alright, quit your blubbering, Now what's your problem?" Slick interrupted with his usual tact. He was met with a most heartbroken expression.  
"How could you do this, boss?" Boxcars wailed, "I thought we had something!"  
"What."  
"Don't you like my cooking anymore?"  
"Wh- no, it's not like that. These were just, um," Slick stammered, trying to explain the situation. It wasn't that he needed to come up with some excuse, it was just that he realized, in that moment, how amazingly stupid the truth was, and he needed to figure out a way to explain without sounding like a crazy person. While he thought, Boxcars noticed something off.  
"What is that?" He rose from the table, accidentally knocking Deuce from his side. With a stride that said "Get out the way" he stormed over to Slick.  
"What. Is. That?" he repeated more forcefully, poking Slick in the stomach, which still bulged from his recent overindulgence.  
"Watch it!" Slick whined.  
"You'd really rather eat this-" and for a split second it sounded like he was choking on his words, "Eat _this_ , than my cooking?"  
"No-no-no-" Slick shook his hands fervently. "This is..." He let his gaze fall to his stomach. No playing that off like it was nothing, that was for sure. He'd have to utilize all his bullshitting capabilities. "This is just... an allergic reaction!"  
"To what?"  
"To, uh, I mean, I'm pregnant! Yeah, let's go with that."  
"Who's the father?"  
"...Crowbar?"  
"Nice try, but we all know he's shootin' blanks."  
Slick sighed audibly. Bullshitting was getting him nowhere. It never did. "Look, Hearts, I swear we're not trying to replace you. You can cook all you like."  
"You mean it?" Boxcars' face lit right up.  
"Hey, even if I didn't, who's gonna stop you? Anyway, don't worry about these pizzas. This is just a one time thing."  
"Yer the best!" Boxcars whooped joyously. "I could just-"  
"Please don’t hug me."  
"Got it."

_Good, everything's straightened out,_ , Slick thought, _Now I can go back to-_  
A crashing, rumbling noise interrupted his inner exposition, as well as everybody else's thoughts. He struggled for a bit with the zipper on his pants before giving in and pulling down his shirt, hoping that would obscure his open fly. The three men, accompanied by Droog, rushed to the scene of the crime which, it turned out, was literally at that moment the scene of a crime. A certain green-clad gang, or rather, one third of a certain green-clad gang, had tunneled their way into the Midnight Crew's hideout.

Crowbar crept in, facing his four companions: Itchy, Doze, Snowman, and Matchsticks, seemingly oblivious to his enemies staring him down in disbelief. Doze cleared his throat a few times.  
"Remember the plan! Itchy, steal everything of value. Snowman, kill anyone who-"  
"Oh for fuck's sake, Doze, if you need to say something, just fucking interrupt his self-important ass!" Itchy admonished, groaning in exasperation.  
"Excuse me?" Crowbar raised an eyebrow. Doze pointed and Crowbar was treated to a faceful of irate Dersite fist. He counted his lucky stars that it was only Diamonds Droog who had punched him, and not Hearts Boxcars. Still, those rings were going to leave welts.  
"Hold up" Slick reached over and grabbed Droog's arm, preventing him from landing another strike. "Before you punch his lights out, I want a confession."  
Crowbar looked at Slick anxiously, then all around at his surroundings, and back to Slick. His torso stuck out slightly. What was he hiding beneath his shirt? Did they anticipate the break-in?  
"For what purpose?" Crowbar continued the discussion suspiciously.  
"That's my business."  
Crowbar spat at Slick's shoes. (It would have been more satisfying to spit at Droog's, of course, but Crowbar doesn't hate his life that much.) "You expect me to tell you anything? Matchsticks, take care of these assholes, why don't ya?"

Matchsticks and Boxcars were engaged in a catlike staring contest. After their last meeting, both of them were too nervous to break eye contact or make the first move. And while they all watched this silent battle, waiting to see who would break first, nobody moved a muscle. That is, until the spectacle was spoiled by an impatient sigh.  
"Itchy, will you shut up?" Crowbar snapped, nearing the end of his rope.  
"Wasn't me!"  
Snowman shoved her way through the small crowd of people. "Everybody out of the goddamn way! I've got a week full of stress, a gang full of morons, and a belly full of empty!"  
Everyone (save Matchsticks and Boxcars) watched her storm over to the kitchen.  
"Slick," Droog began, in a warning tone of voice. "How does Snowman know her way around our hideout?"  
"I dunno!" Slick threw his hands up. "I always kick her right out after we-"  
"Oh, my bad," Boxcars spoke up, finally. "Sometimes I cook breakfast for her when I get up. I mean, ya can't let a lady leave hungry, right?"  
Droog face-palmed.  
"You... you guys did have a plan, right?" Deuce asked, turning to the one third of the Felt. "Because unless it's ironically brilliant, I don't think it's going too well."  
"Yes, we had a plan!" Crowbar snapped again. "Everything was supposed to work perfectly!" One could almost see the defeat escaping his form. "Well, Itchy, you were right. I am a failure as a leader. Go ahead. Tell me."

"Huh? What now?" Itchy looked up, confused, broken from some sort of reverie.  
"Dammit, Itchy, will you stop staring at Slick and pay attention?" Doze commanded, raising his foot up and down in an apparent attempt to stamp it.  
Crowbar looked more closely at Slick to discern out what the huge screaming deal was. Could Itchy figure out what he was hiding?"  
"Oh, sorry babe!" Itchy grinned cheekily, "But you know I can't resist a guy who can eat!"  
After processing Itchy's words, Crowbar looked at the ceiling and shook his head. "I can't tell whether to be relieved or disappointed in you, Slick." Slick ignored him, instead choosing to slink away, attempting to hide his stomach from Itchy's lecherous eyes.  
"Watch out, Slick," Droog pulled Slick close to him and murmured. "Something strange is going on and I don't like it."  
"Yeah," Slick agreed, shooting nervous glances at Itchy.  
"They're behaving far too casually," Droog continued, unaware that Slick had agreed with him for unrelated reasons. Droog had little cause to be wary though, as the two gangs' non-existent fight had come to a stand-still, seeing as most of the Crew were too confused to fight, and most of the Felt were too bored.

A shrill yell, almost like a roar, disrupted any feelings of confusion or boredom. It had come from the kitchen.  
"Snowman!" Crowbar and Slick shouted with unease. Crowbar, because the team was his responsibility tonight and if anything happened to her, he didn't want to imagine what that would mean for him. Slick, because he knew just how terrifying an upset or injured Snowman could be. Slick ran to the kitchen with Crowbar at his heels. The rest followed.  
"Snowman, what's the matter?" Crowbar demanded, panic laced through his voice. "Wait a minute-" his tone changed as he took in his surroundings.  
"What gives? Why is the grub here already?" Itchy asked.  
"They're not all here, not anymore," Snowman growled between clenched teeth. "One of these foolish pawns had the nerve to eat my veggie pizza!"  
"We. Really. Don't. Have. Time. For. This," Crowbar hissed, trying to pull her away. She smacked at him, easily knocking him over.  
"Do you have any idea how my day has been? I only came on this ridiculous excuse for a heist because you promised there would be pizza!" She turned to the Crew and glowered at them, her voice first turning viciously low, "Now, I would like to know who the guilty party is-" and back to shrill and high "-so I can know whose ass to kick!"  
Crowbar jerked a thumb towards Slick. "Hey, I think I found your culprit."  
Snowman considered him, but shook her head. "Even Slick's not that dumb."

First, she turned to Boxcars, but quickly turned away. They had an odd sort of respect for one another. He wouldn't dare.

Second, she turned to Deuce. She took a threatening step forward, then paused, and turned to Doze's direction. He shook his head. She gave a motion as if to say, "You sure?" He nodded again and jerked his head towards Droog. Snowman began to approach Droog. It was not his reaction that assured her that she had her man, but Slick's. He accidentally emitted the slightest gasp, imperceptible to anyone else, but to Snowman, who knew him better than most people, it was a dead giveaway. Snowman narrowed her eyes and stood so close to her would be victim, she could almost smell his breath. Actually, she could.

"Hmm. Minty fresh. How... suspicious," she drawled.  
"Yes, yes, how very strange that the perpetually well-groomed one among us would engage in a basic practice of hygiene!" Slick jumped in, his words thick with sarcasm. "Crowbar was right. I ate your stupid pizza, okay? And it was terrible, too!"  
Snowman slowly turned towards him. Initially, her expression was one of a hunter being kept from her prey, but a small smile crept onto her features. "Alright. You've convinced me," she stepped away from Droog. "But if this happens again, I'm gutting every last one of you."

And she was gone.

Slick melted onto the floor, his knees like jelly and his heart in his throat. "Holy fuck, I can't believe I actually passed a speech check."

"Gosh, Crowbar, I hope she wasn't an integral part of your plan," Deuce piped up not-so-helpfully.  
"Not that it matters now," Crowbar held his face in his hands. "Dammit, Matchsticks, get out of there!" The eleventh Felt closed the doors of the Crew's pantry, an open box of crackers in his hands. "Sorry, I got the munchies." Meanwhile, no one had noticed Slick's breathing getting more rapid and frantic. When he snapped, it seemed to come out of nowhere. "That's it! I have had enough!" He made his way towards Doze, grabbed him from behind and pressed a knife against his throat. "Somebody is going to tell me what the fuck is going on or-!"

_Click._

"Or what?" Itchy poked a gun at Slick's temple.  
"Itchy, do you have some sort of issue with following orders?" Crowbar barked. "What part of, 'Don't bring your gun on this heist' didn't you understand?"  
"All of it. Now," Itchy tried to speak slowly. "You're going to put down the knife, let go of the man, and everything will be cool." Slick did as directed. Normally, he would have given the finger to Itchy if he tried to boss him around, but at the moment, he realized he wasn't at his peak emotionally, mentally, or physically. Still, he shoved Doze towards Itchy somewhat violently as a last defiant act. Itchy practically leaped forward and grabbed Doze, hugging him around the waist, but Doze squirmed out of his grasp.

"Hey, what gives? How about some love for your knight in shining-armor?"  
Doze gave him the side-eye. "Hmmph! I was starting to doubt if you still cared." Itchy laughed incredulously, which Doze did not appreciate.  
"Don't think I haven't noticed you've had your eye on Slick ever since we got here!" Itchy just laughed harder and Doze fumed.  
"Can you blame me? Seriously, look at him! Can you just imagine him gaining weight?"  
"I'm standin' right here," Slick pouted, crossing his arms. Itchy paid no attention.  
"Can you imagine him getting as fat as you, Doze? And how sexy that would be?"  
"Why would you want someone like me when you've already got _me_?" Doze exclaimed. Itchy was taken aback, but laughed that same laugh again. This time however, it was more patronizing than dismissive. "What? No, babe, you've got it all wrong! I don't want Slick, I'm just..."  
"Just what?"  
"Window shopping! You know no one can replace you."  
Doze looked into Itchy's eyes, hopeful. "You really mean it?" Itchy smiled- a real smile, not a smirk. Doze slowly returned the smile and threw himself into Itchy's arms, kissing him on the lips. When they pulled away, Itchy swept Doze up off the floor. He addressed the crowd. "We're outta here; can't say when we'll be back!" Doze grinned as Itchy carried his lover bridal style out of the kitchen, out of the hole the Felt created.

Boxcars wiped away a single, manly tear.

Immediately, someone asked the question on everyone else's mind. It was unavoidable.  
"Does Itchy have a spine of steel? How does he not break his back lugging Doze's fatass around?" Droog quipped.

No wait, not that question.

"What the fuck just happened?" Crowbar asked.  
"You lost two more guys," Deuce contributed, still not being very helpful. Crowbar moved his lips silently, but it was easy to tell he was counting to ten. With a sigh that he would later deny as being childish, Droog appealed to Slick again. "We outnumber them. Can we kill them now?" Slick shook his head.  
"Not until I get some answers," he replied. "These assholes woke me up from a good dream!"  
"Ya mean the puppy dream, or the cartoon dream, or the dream about Droog wearin'-"  
"Shut up, Boxcars."  
"Forget it! I'm not telling you shit!" Crowbar snapped.  
"He's too embarrassed," Droog commented.  
"Ooh! Ooh! I think I've got it!" Deuce jumped up and down, waving his arms in the air. "These guys broke in here, trying to be all sneaky, 'swhy they didn't bring guns; didn't want to cause a ruckus. They expected us to be asleep in our beds, which would have made dispatching us easier. Then, they were going to celebrate with pizza- which should have been delivered much later-, and summon the rest of the Felt to join them. But the pizza came too early and threw a wrench in their plans."  
The others stared at him, agape.  
"How did-" Crowbar began.  
"I read the script," Deuce showed them a few sheets of paper stapled together. "Yeah, the script for your heist. I swiped it from Matchsticks."  
"You," Crowbar stopped, scarcely able to continue his train of thought. "You brought a script of our heist? How stupid are you?" Matchsticks flinched.  
"I was afraid I'd forget something."  
"Okay, I'm satisfied!" Slick addressed Droog a little too cheerfully. "You can kill them now!"  
"Wait!" Crowbar said in a panic. He had nothing, but that murderous look in Droog's eyes told him he better think fast. "How much did the pizzas cost? I'll pay for them- no, I'll pay double. And you can keep the pizzas. And I know a guy who can fix the hole- no charge! Just let us leave alive."  
Slick hemmed and hawwed, but relented. Crowbar pulled out his wallet and as he thumbed through his cash, he added, a bit somberly, "I realize I have no place asking, but do you mind doing me a favor?"  
"You've got some nerve-" Boxcars stepped forward.  
"Hang on, let's hear him out. I could use a laugh."  
"It's just," Crowbar handed over the money and scratched the back of his head. "Could you maybe not tell anyone what happened here?"  
Slick stared him dead in the eye. "As enemies, I will do everything in my power to take you down, and if that means destroying your reputation, so be it." Crowbar looked dejected.  
"But-" Slick continued. "Until such is necessary, you have my word that our lips will be sealed."  
Relief flooded Crowbar's features and a smile nearly made its way onto his face. He kept his calm though and nodded at Slick almost respectfully. Then the last two Felt made their way out. Once they were gone, Droog made his feelings clear.  
"Why did you do that? We had them and you just let them go for a few boonbucks?" He jabbed a finger at Slick's chest. "What were you thinking?"  
"It's way more than a few boonbucks," Slick retorted, waving the money in Droog's face. "And I was thinking about the stuff _you're_ always saying we need! New clothes, new rugs that aren't stained, Swedish Fish. Think about it, Droog. All of the Swedish Fish. All of them."  
"Oh! I apologize," Droog blushed. "I should have trusted your judgment."  
"No, didn't we just go through this? When you have a complaint, tell me. You did right."  
"Oh, yer accepting complaints now? Because I gotta say: there ain't enough light in this place, so maybe we could doing something about that."  
"Duly noted."  
"Great!" Boxcars then spoke to Deuce. "Come on and help me drag a couch or something in front of the hole."  
"Right!" And off they went, leaving Slick and Droog alone. Droog stifled a yawn and realized just how tired he was; he was running off the adrenaline of prepping for battle.  
"I'm going to bed. Need some beauty sleep."  
"Yeah, you sure-" Slick began to respond with the obvious comeback. At long last! The perfect verbal jab and he had it right in the oh what the hell.  
"You do that," Slick decided against being an ass. Droog almost laughed and gently placed a hand on Slick's shoulder.  
"You should go to bed soon."  
Slick placed his hand over Droog's and held it for a moment. "Soon. Let me just find a place for these pizzas in the fridge." He felt Droog slip away.

It wouldn't be the last time he'd feel that.


	3. Not Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boxcars makes food, and the Crew plan a revenge attack on the Felt. They decide to destroy the billiards room.

Most nights, Boxcars slept peacefully. Dreams scarcely disturbed his rest, and he found he could comfortably adjust to any surface. In fact, it was not uncommon for him to turn in for the night on the couch in the living area, listening to the radio, Deuce snoozing peacefully atop his stomach like a cat. Such situations were not always optional. For example, just recently, the Crew had a large portion of their wall demolished against their will. Boxcars and Deuce had spent a good portion of the night shoving the couch as well as other furniture in front of the hole. By the time they were finished, it was too late to listen to the radio and the couch was blocked. They said their good nights and went into their own bedrooms. After that, Boxcars expected it would be like most nights.

He couldn't recall the details precisely. Something about being back in the desert. Someone, possibly a creature, possibly an enemy, had caught his wrappings. They were strangling him- attempting to, at least. More creatures grabbed at the wrappings, tugging, making movement a struggle. The oppressive heat wasn't helping matters, but when that ear piercing shriek blared out from godhead knows where, all he concerned himself with was gaining freedom of his hand to keep the noise out of his ears. On the upside, the creatures seemed as agitated by the noise as him, and quickly faded at the sound. As they went, so did everything else.

In the end, the desert melted away, living behind only Boxcar's bedroom, the alarm clock sounding obnoxiously yet persistently, and Slick curled up next to him, limbs locking him in place. Boxcars groaned inwardly, pounded on the clock and gently shoved Slick.

"Hey, Boss, it's time to get up."  
Slick's only response was to whine incomprehensibly and move closer to the larger Dersite, attaching himself like a barnacle.  
"What are you doing in here, anyway?"  
"Got cold in my room."  
"Did ya have to sleep so close? Yer like a furnace!"  
"If you don't like it, you can sleep outside,"  
"The last time I did, you decided to join me because it was so nice out."  
"Oh yeah, heh heh.”  
Boxcars was more or less awake and Slick wasn't. He figured he should take advantage of the opportunity.  
"Hang on, Boss, I just remembered something."  
"Whassat?"  
"I'm much bigger and stronger than you."  
Before Slick could counter, Boxcars was out of bed, completely unhindered by the smaller Dersite hanging off him. Being dropped on the floor like that jolted Slick awake. Jolting is not typically the way in which one tries to awaken Spades Slick, lest they want to lose a vital organ. But Boxcars is Boxcars, and so when an irate Slick jumped onto him to gnaw viciously on the back of his head, he just rolled with it.

"Evenin', Droog" Boxcars smiled as he passed his comrade in the hall.  
"Good evening, Boxcars. Good evening, Slick."  
"Hey," Slick briefly looked up before returning to his task.  
"Do you need me to take care of that for you?" Droog pointed at Slick as though he were a minor inconvenience, which technically he was.  
"Nah, I'll be fine, but could you wake Deuce up for me? I want to get started on breakfast."  
Droog nodded and went to retrieve the fourth member of the Midnight Crew. As he entered the kitchen area, Boxcars paused in front of the pantry.  
"Whatcha doin'?" Slick stopped biting momentarily.  
"I can't choose between the strawberry syrup and the maple syrup."  
Slick slid down and looked at him, head cocked to the side. "...Choose?" he finally said, pronouncing the word like it was completely foreign.  
"Yeah, well, ya know some of us actually know a little about cooking, and that yer not supposed to just mix everything together," he grabbed the maple syrup and a few other ingredients, then headed to the fridge for more. He scattered everything across the kitchen counter. Slick grabbed the red syrup just in case Boxcars changed his mind. He also had another idea.  
"Argh, I've been shot!" Slick made a show of collapsing, red syrup covering his chest.  
"Funny," Boxcars entertained him with the quickest of glances. "I didn't hear no gunshot."  
"Aw, you're no fun," Slick pouted.  
"Get yerself cleaned up," Boxcars pointed the way out, partially because Slick really did need to find a new shirt thanks to his antics, but mostly because Boxcars said that anytime he was in the kitchen. It meant, "Don't disturb me while I'm cooking, unless you want a pot of boiling water on your head." Slick obeyed, having lost interest in the cooking process.  
"And stop wasting food!" Boxcars added.

The pancakes and other fare were soon prepared and on the table. Three of the four chairs were filled. Slick was not among them.  
"Hey, Boss!" Boxcars called. "Get in here and have some of this great food I made!"  
"Nah, 'm not hungry!"  
"Really, Slick, you shouldn't skip breakfast. Even if it is soaking in fat," Droog looked at his plate over his newspaper, not even bothering to hide his look of disgust.  
"Like the five pots of coffee you drink and twenty packs of cigarettes you smoke a day are so much better," Boxcars snapped at Droog.  
"You're exaggerating."  
"If Slick doesn't want his chocolate chip pancakes, can I have them?" Deuce reached his fork over to Slick's plate. At the mention of "chocolate chips", the formerly absent Dersite was seated at his place at the table. He consented to having a couple pancakes, and at Boxcars urging, had some bacon and sausage as well. He drew the line at the biscuits with gravy, though, giving his portion to Boxcars and Deuce.  
"Those things kinda weird me out," Slick commented with a mouthful of pancake. "Probably cause we know a Biscuits," He shoveled in more food. "I mea, I know heah ah eemy-"  
"Swallow," Droog interrupted tersely. Slick did as told, then glared at Droog.  
"What's it matter? You can understand what I'm saying."  
"The point is, it's bad form." In response, Slick picked up a sausage patty with his hands and tore off a large bite with his teeth.  
"Who exactly am I trying to impress here?" Slick sneered.  
"Slick, I swear to Godhead Pickle Inspector," Droog began through clenched teeth, "If you don't pick up your fork I will pour this coffee in your lap and break the mug over your skull."  
"No you wont" Slick began picking off the chips and eating them one by one. He was right. Droog wouldn't grievously injure him if he could help it. Technically though, the coffee was no longer hot enough to scald. His arm shot towards Slick- only to be stopped in its path by Boxcars' much more powerful one.  
"All I ask for is a nice meal between the four of us," he scolded.  
"Maybe if he stopped treating me like a grub!"  
"Maybe if he stopped acting like one!"  
"Enough! Droog, drink your damn coffee and leave Slick alone. It's his business if he wants to act like a prat."  
Droog huffed indignantly, knowing he was in the right, but gave in and returned to his plate. He tried to scrape some of the grease off a sausage patty. Meanwhile, Deuce gently tapped Slick on the arm.  
"He does have a point, you know. Engaging in good manners now will be good practice if you want to go out for dinner sometime," he explained knowingly. Slick smirked and patted him on the head.  
"I know, I was just giving him a hard time," Slick turned to Droog. "No hard feelings, bud?"  
Droog rolled his eyes. "Sure, we're good," he muttered, resuming his mission.  
"In fact, as penance for my crude behavior, I relinquish my bacon over to you," Slick said, hand over his chest. He forked the crispy slice of meat and dumped it on Droog's plate. Droog slammed both palms on the table.  
"Dammit Slick, I just cleaned everything off! Don't put that greasy thing on my plate!"  
"You're welcome!" Slick grinned evilly.  
"Little bastard," Droog went back to work. Slick hugged Droog, pinning his arms to his sides.  
"Love you too, Diamonds," then he kissed him on the cheek with his sticky, syrup-coated mouth.  
"Get off, get off, get off!" Droog wriggled but Slick just clamped tighter and laughed uproariously.  
"That's more like it!" Boxcars chuckled happily.  
"I don't think they're actually getting along," Deuce commented apprehensively.  
"Close enough."

Once lunchtime rolled around, Slick put his foot down. Boxcars hadn't done as much cooking, just fixed a few hoagies and chopped up some fruit with whipped cream, so he was willing to let Slick go without if that was what he really desired. Still, there was an argument between him and Droog as to whether or not Slick was missing out. And later, Droog would insist that the pulpy mass of cantaloupe on the floor was due to Boxcars throwing it at him, whereas Boxcars would claim that he handed it to Droog, who promptly slammed it on the ground. And Deuce would refuse to incriminate either of them. Slick was unaware of any drama, as he chose to spend the entirety of lunchtime in his room, plotting how to get back at the Felt.

He came to the conclusion that since the Felt destroyed a wall in their modest hideout, it was only just that the Midnight Crew get to destroy a room in the Felt mansion. The only issue was, which room? He had a few ideas, but he needed to share them with the Crew. They had a few suggestions of their own.

"Let's trash one of their bathrooms" Boxcars suggested, laughing heartily. "That'll teach 'em to mess with us!"  
Slick shook his head. "Nah, that's a little too evil. 'Sides, I don't want to imagine that scenario if things went awry."  
"Perhaps we could ruin one or more of their bedrooms," Droog pondered aloud. "We might learn some things about our adversaries."  
"Maybe" Slick considered. "So long as it's not Itchy's room!" he clarified, shuddering. "Hey Deuce, you're the demolitions expert. You should be the one to choose."  
Deuce looked pleased at being included in the conversation, then thought for a moment. He spoke his answer with such formality and finality that there was no debating it.  
"The billiards room!  
"Yeah..." Slick slowly nodded. "Yeah, I like the symbology!" Droog's eye twitched involuntarily.  
"Let's send those punks a message!" Boxcars said triumphantly. It was decided. All that was left was figuring out how to sneak Deuce in there. With so many of the Felt, it wasn't a simple task.  
"If we go on a Monday, Cans won't be there, but Eggs and Biscuits will," Slick began. "Tuesday is the reverse. Doze generally isn't a problem unless Itchy's with him, and he always is. We can take Crowbar if he's alone, but otherwise we're boned. They all go out on Fridays, but not for long. That wouldn't leave us much time," Slick muttered, mostly talking to himself. "Does anyone know if Stitch ever leaves the place for a significant amount of time?" he looked up suddenly.  
"Why don't you call and ask him?" Droog suggested, clearly bored. Slick threw a pen at his head.  
"Smartass. You don’t get to come."  
"I'm being serious. Stitch hates the Felt almost as much as we do. If we told him our plans, he'd probably want front row seats to watch the explosion."  
"That's good to know, I guess," Slick began. "I still don't like how friendly you are with the guy, though."  
"Trust me, I hate his ugly green guts. But he's the only one in the Felt with two brain cells to rub together, so I respect him."  
Slick ceased hounding Droog for an explanation and called up Stitch.  
"What," a short greeting on the other line met Slick's ears.  
"Hey, jerk, it's Spades Slick. Gotta question for you."  
"Nope."  
"Whaddaya mean nope? Slick brandished his knife and bared his teeth. Droog gently pushed his arm down.  
"He can't see you threatening to stab him."  
"Oh right."  
"Put Droog on," Stitch continued. "I'll talk t' him."  
"Ugh, stop being a pain and let me talk"  
"Nothin' doin'. Droog's the only one among ya with two brain cells t' rub together."  
"Oh, this is unbelievable!"  
"You got nine seconds or I'm hanging up."  
"Fine!" Slick shoved the receiver into Droog's hands. The ball was no longer in his court.  
"Hey, jerk," Droog began his conversation. They spoke for a while, then Droog hung up.  
"He says he can't abide by any plan that might injure anyone in the Felt, since he'd be the one stuck taking care of them. So he said he'll try to keep them all away for a little bit longer on Friday."  
"How can we be sure we can trust Stitch?" Boxcars spoke up. "What if he gets shitfaced and shoots his mouth off, or Crowbar tries to torture him for information?"  
"Not a concern," Droog answered calmly. "For one thing, he doesn't drink and isn't much of a conversationalist. For another thing, the man's been through hell. War, gangs before this one, a shrew of a mother-in-law. It'd take quite a bit to get him to crack." Satisfied, the four went their separate ways to do whatever it is sentient chess pieces do on their time off.

Once morning approached, Slick realized he was absolutely famished. Skipping yet another meal wasn't an option, so he went into the kitchen for some leftover pizza.  
"Oh, no you don't." Boxcars blocked his path but smiled in a friendly manner. "Yer not having any more of that. Not tonight. I'm fixing us a gourmet dinner."  
"But I'm hungry now!" Slick complained.  
"Trust me. You'll be glad you waited," Boxcars shoved Slick out of the kitchen so he could start working. In the end, Boxcars was right. But also kind of wrong. But mostly right.

A couple hours or an eternity later, depending on whom you asked and how much of a drama queen they were, dinner was served. Boxcars called everyone into the kitchen, demanding they book their asses before he came to get them. Slick and Deuce were there before he finished his sentence. Droog took his sweet time and sauntered in with a book. The first course was soup.  
"This ain't gazpacho," Boxcars pointed out. "So eat up before it gets all cold and gross."  
"No thanks," Droog replied.  
"Fine, but yer having some of the main course"  
"Agreed."  
Slick stirred the bowl in front of him. Tomato bisque. He wasn't particularly interested in soup or plant based foods, but if he squinted, it looked like blood and guts. He giggled.  
"What's so funny, Boss?" Deuce looked at him, smiling innocently.  
"Oh, I was just thinking this stuff looks kinda like-" he stopped when he saw both Boxcars and Droog glaring at him.  
"I know where that demented mind of yours is heading," Droog warned. "Think twice before you decide to be crass."  
"Fine," Slick consented. He stifled another giggle and started on the soup. It was thick and velvety, with just the right spices. Cumin, cracked black pepper, and just a little bit of sriracha sauce for an added kick. The heat tantalized and danced back and forth across the line from pleasure to pain. Both sensations inspired Slick to eat faster. He gulped down spoonful after spoonful, occasionally remembering to stop and savor the exceptional taste.  
"Pretty good, huh?" Boxcars grinned proudly.  
"Delightful! You've really outdone yourself!" Deuce complimented him.  
"Huh?" Slick looked up, noticing that he was completely bent over his bowl. "Yeah, it's great," he started to put his spoon in the bowl, but put it back down. Then he picked the bowl up and drank from it directly. Deuce looked at him and Droog nervously, expecting a confrontation.  
"Um, Boss?" he tugged at Slick's shirt nervously.  
"It's fine," Droog didn't bother looking up from his book. "So long as he doesn't lick the bowl clean." Deuce sighed in relief. Slick placed the now empty bowl back on the table and belched.  
"That is not fine," Droog's eye twitched.  
"Droog, you should probably see someone about that nasty twitch you've got," Deuce commented.  
"'Scuse me," Slick said in an insincere manner.  
"Who wants seconds?" Boxcars called. "No, you don't have to say anything, Boss. I know you do," he grabbed Slick's bowl. "How 'bout you, Deuce?"  
"Sure, just top me off," Deuce handed over his partially finished bowl. Honestly, Slick would've been satisfied with just one serving, but he wasn't fast enough. He figured one more bowl wouldn't hurt. It was damn good soup. The second bowl he ate from more slowly, nearly entranced by the luxurious flavor. It was like nothing existed beyond that tomato bisque. He finished and let the spoon clatter into the bowl, starting to feel comfortably full. Deuce finished his portion and Boxcars as well. He allowed them a moment to rest and digest before bringing out the main course. Steak and mashed potatoes. A humble food, but it smelled divine. Slick and Deuce were salivating in anticipation, and even Droog put his book down, interested in the meal Boxcars presented to them. He gave Slick and Deuce nice thick slices with plenty of the fluffy potatoes, but stopped apprehensively before Droog.  
"Well?"  
"Alright, just a small piece," Droog agreed. He frowned as Boxcars gave him what he would not consider small, along with a pile of mashed potatoes, but he didn't feel like arguing.

The potatoes had chives sprinkled on top, or weird green things as far as Slick was concerned. He began to pick them off.  
"Touch those, and I'll shove the whole plate up yer ass," Boxcars said in a disturbing sing song voice. Slick put them back on. He cautiously tried a few small bites. While he wasn't sold on the chives, the potatoes themselves were light and perfectly whipped with a hint of garlic. He would have polished them off in no time, but he was far more interested in the steak. Boxcars had cooked each steak to perfection, customized to their individual tastes. Slick's was almost cool and bordered on rare. Blood gushed as he punctured it with his knife, and he grinned like a kid in a candy store. Or like himself in a candy store. About halfway through, he realized he had not given a single thought to steak sauce or any other adornment. It was that succulent. For that matter, nothing needed to be salted or peppered. He stopped eating to admire Boxcars' handiwork.

"What's the matter?" Boxcars asked, a hint of worry clear in his voice. "Did I cook the steak too much?"  
"No, everything's fine," Slick confirmed, slightly startled. "Actually, it's better than fine. I mean, I knew you could cook, but just- wow," Boxcars beamed and Slick continued eating. Droog was delighted at the fact that Slick was actually eating slowly, calmly, and quietly for once, but in truth he just wanted to make the meal last as long as possible. Even the chives became less unbearable over time. Once he finished off the potatoes and had less than a quarter of the steak remaining, he began to slow down even more. He was becoming acutely aware of just how full he was getting. He tried to ignore the slight snug feeling of his waistband as he continued on the steak. He had another bite and suddenly the fullness became easier to ignore as he embraced the savory, juicy flavor. The only trouble came at the end of the meal, when he had no more steak to distract him. That snug feeling had progressed to tight, but at least the meal was over before he was completely engorged.

"Time for dessert!" Boxcars announced gleefully a bit later.  
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me" Slick groaned. He rubbed his stomach thoughtfully. He was pretty stuffed as it was, but Boxcars would be heartbroken if he didn't at least try some. Besides, if it was anything like the rest of the meal, he knew he would regret not trying some. With a defeatist sigh, he asked what the dessert was.  
"Just wait and see" Boxcars got up from his chair and returned with a large cheesecake, smothered in a strawberry glaze and topped with fresh strawberries. Slick's eyes went wide at the promise of the rich, sweet treat, and his tongue promptly vetoed his gut's proposal to stop. Boxcars served them all generous slices. Being the sugar junkie that he is, it took all of Slick's willpower not to inhale his slice, and he was glad he didn't give in. The cake was creamy and luscious, the glaze was the perfect balance of tangy and sweet, and the strawberries, all a beautiful red hue, provided a nice contrast to the decadent cake. The only problem, and it was only a problem in this circumstance, was how incredibly dense it was. It took Slick much longer to get through it than he would have imagined. His stomach swelled the more he ate, and he wondered if he looked as full as he felt.  
"How's the cheesecake?" Boxcars asked. Slick used the question as the opportunity to take a breather and consider maybe throwing in the towel. He and Deuce both declared the dessert was incredible. Boxcars smiled, but added, "That's nice of you guys, but no offense, I'm pretty sure Deuce doesn't have a mean bone in his body, and Slick, you'll eat shoe leather if it's coated in enough sugar."  
Deuce and Slick agreed on both counts.  
"What I really need is an opinion from the man with refined taste buds," he addressed Droog, who had gotten wrapped up in his book again and hadn't noticed the plate in front of him. He gave in and tried a bite.  
"I don't hate it."  
"Alright!" Boxcars exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air.

_Dammit_ Slick thought. _Boxcars is so proud of this. I can't leave it unfinished. That wouldn't be right._ He convinced himself he was only doing it for Boxcars' sake and ate the rest. Then, without thinking, he turned to Droog.  
"You gonna eat that?" he pointed to Droog's abandoned slice.  
 _What the fuck is wrong with you?_ Slick scolded himself. Droog pushed his plate in Slick's direction.  
"Just a fair warning, I'm not wasting my evening massaging your stomach again," Droog let him know. Slick turned red.  
"I didn't ask you to!" he snarled, irritated. The other two looked up in confusion at the sudden dispute, but it died down immediately. Slick ate somberly, less interested in the taste but more interested in finishing what he started. When he did finish, his pants were almost painfully tight and it was a miracle he hadn't lost the button. It was blatantly obvious that he had overeaten, his lethargic demeanor being one hint and his bloated stomach, waging war against the buttons on the shirt, being the other hint. He noted all this with dismay, but at least he hadn't eaten as much as he had on the previous day. Once everyone had their fill (and then some) of dessert, they retired to the living area, minus Boxcars who remained in the kitchen. As Slick got up from his chair, he realized just how much he had taken Droog for granted. He moaned almost sorrowfully, then moaned again as the large meal attempted to settle. He slowly made his way to the living area, careful not to jostle his stomach. They all had to sit on the floor, but they'd been through worse conditions, so no one complained.

Even though Slick was genuinely trying to cover up his discomfort, it made no difference. Droog just knew. Without looking at him or hearing him, he just knew.  
"Slick, come on. Let's go to your room."  
"No, 'm fine," Slick mumbled, entering stubborn mode. He flopped back and forth between his back and sides, trying to find a comfortable position. Droog sighed.  
"Deuce, why don't you go help Boxcars with the dishes?" he asked. Normally, Boxcars did all work pertaining to the kitchen, but Deuce did as directed.  
"What are you up to?" Slick asked. Droog scooted over to his boss and made him sit up.  
"You shouldn't lie down like that after so much food," he warned.  
"Why? Is it considered rude or something?" Slick replied sarcastically.  
"No, it just makes you feel worse," Droog explained. "Don't try my patience."  
Slick understood. Droog wasn't being an asshole. And with basically no signal, he wrapped one arm around Slick, holding him in place and started massaging his stomach with the other. Slick didn't protest and even leaned into his moirail a bit. Droog noticed how much Slick bulged over the waistband and grimaced in sympathy. He reached both hands around the front and undid the button, just as Deuce returned to the room.  
"Hey, Droog, Boxcars kicked me out 'cause I can't reach the sink- whoa! Did I interrupt something?"  
Droog quickly moved away from Slick, who nearly toppled over. Slick frowned and dragged him back.  
"Did I say you could stop?" He grabbed Droog's hand and put it back where it was.  
"Sometimes I just don't get you," Droog chuckled.  
"Wipe that grin off your face" Slick said to Deuce. "It just so happens that Droog here has magic fingers."  
"Oh yeah, I know all about that," Deuce nodded. Droog and Slick looked at him in shock. "Yeah, remember the one heist? There was that piece of paper with confidential information behind a locked door, and I didn't have any explosives left, and Boxcars was out of commission, and Droog just reached those long, skinny fingers under the door and got that paper!"  
"You do this stuff on purpose, don't you, Deuce?" Droog asked.  
"Do what?"  
"Never mind," he turned his attention back to his boss, who was leaning against him once more, stress painted across his face. Droog gently massaged, and Slick seemed to melt at even the slightest touch. He tried to pay attention to Droog and Deuce's conversation and contribute occasionally, but instead fell asleep in Droog's arms. Boxcars entered the room shortly after, finished with the dishes. He smirked at the sight before him.  
"Now isn't that sweet."  
"Oh, don't you start," Droog said curtly.  
"Hey, I wasn't implying anything," Boxcars threw up his hands in a display of innocence. "But since ya mention it, I'd say ya better watch out."  
"Watch out for what?"  
"Well, yer giving Slick that look..."  
"What look?" Droog said through clenched teeth.  
"Say, 'the White Queen in a red, strapless dress.'"  
Droog looked bewildered but did as told. "The White Queen in a red strapless dress." In response, Boxcars sighed dreamily. Droog said nothing but stared incredulously. "You're being ridiculous."  
"Trust me, I know what I'm talking about."  
Droog decided he'd had enough and shook Slick awake.  
"...And I will cut you if you say otherwise" Slick said dreamily. "Wait, what's going on?"  
"If you're going to sleep, you should go to bed," Droog helped him to his feet and lead him to his room.  
"Thought you said I shouldn't lie down" Slick said childishly.  
"Don't argue with me," Droog opened the door. "I'm not in the mood."  
"You’re never in the mood" Slick muttered. Droog started to leave, but something kept him back. He hung his head and returned to Slick's room.  
"You asleep yet?"  
"Nah"  
"Good. Mind if I ask you something?" Droog clung to the door, reluctant to enter the cesspool that was his boss's room. He took a breath and entered, closing the door behind him, then sat on a chair at Slick's desk.  
"Shoot."  
"Why did you respond so negatively when I said that I wouldn't, well, you know? I don't mind if you were angry, but normally I can guess pretty easily what will set you off."  
Slick refused to look at him. "Well," he stopped to think, "I just couldn't believe that you would have the gall to think that I would make such random demands! What kind of leader do you take me for?"  
"Okay, now what's the real reason?" Droog asked again. Slick groaned loudly.  
"Fine. I thought we had... a moment. And I didn't appreciate you sharing it with the whole fucking class," Slick huffed.  
"You thought that me rubbing your gut after you pigged out on pizza was a moment?"  
"Sure it sounds stupid when you put it like that!" Slick was getting more and more annoyed. "Ugh, never mind. Just get out"  
Droog could tell he struck a nerve. "Are you going to be okay?"  
"Mm-hmm," Slick confirmed, a bit more gently. "I'll probably work on the heist a bit more." Droog left. Slick had not been entirely truthful. His stomach still ached, but he needed to be alone. The pain would also serve as a distraction from any introspection.

Otherwise, Slick would have realized the reason why he considered that moment "a moment." It was clear as day. The simple fact was, Spades Slick led a stressful life, and constantly felt the need to be on top of everything. It felt nice to be taken care of, to surrender, to put things into someone else's control for once. The trouble was, there was no one he would give control to willingly, lest they think less of him and his capabilities. No one but Droog.


	4. Image and Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crew are preparing to leave for their attack. Slick is annoyed at his sudden weight gain.

It was supposed to be a one time thing, that extravagant (by the Midnight Crew's standards) supper. It was supposed to be a nice little event, perhaps to celebrate their last scrap with the Felt going relatively smoothly- that is, no one got grievously harmed. Or perhaps it was to retroactively celebrate their upcoming retaliation on the Felt. Although not stated outright, it was definitely supposed to be an excuse for Boxcars to show off his culinary talents, and let the Crew know he was capable of providing nourishment for them at least three times a day. After that day, though, Boxcars was on a roll. Besides, it was obvious his efforts were appreciated, so why not continue on his current trend?

Naturally, such plentiful meals prepared routinely caused undesired results. One of them being the questioning. Where did you get all these ingredients. Did you steal them. Are you sure this meat came from farm beasts. And the like. This issue was solved by the fact that none of them actually cared about the answers in the first place. They just felt an obligation to ask, in case they ran into any trouble down the line. The other issue was the effects of all the food on each member of the Crew.

Boxcars himself remained relatively unaffected, for the simple reason that if he ever attempted to overeat, he would eat them all out of house and home. Deuce never had trouble with temptation, and in fact seemed to be healthier, as he started eating something other than candy and sweets. Droog noticed an undesirable change in his physique (or maybe it was in his imagination) but either way he put a stop to it, putting in extra hours at the gym and only joining the Crew at one meal per night. Slick got hit the hardest, right around the waistline, although there was some collateral damage lower down. For the following nights, it continued, thanks to a lack of communication. Granted, one reason Slick ate almost everything offered to him was due to his lack of self control, but another reason was due to his refusal to disappoint Boxcars, and yet another reason was that he was so distracted by the upcoming heist that he didn't even realize what he was doing. Meanwhile, Boxcars saw that Slick enjoyed the food, and more importantly, the meals seemed to wear away at the stress that plagued Slick at all other times. So everyone was assuming and no one was noticing anything amiss. Not Slick who wasn't always all there. Not Boxcars who was too self-satisfied. And not Deuce who wouldn't care if you somehow grew a third arm. Droog was the exception, but you don't just go up to your boss and say, "Hey, chubby. You need to drop a few pounds." He'd have to go through the resident cook.

He was in the kitchen- he seemed to live there, lately- perusing an old cookbook. Droog took a seat beside him, showing blatant disregard for Boxcars' rule about staying out his kitchen- he had started using the possessive. That got his attention.  
"Can I help you, Droog?" he asked tersely, not looking away from the book. Droog shrugged and let his body language display a casual demeanor.  
"Find anything good?"  
"Still looking," Boxcars brought the book closer to his face.  
"I was thinking, what do you say to a healthier option?" Droog asked, partially legitimately and partially dropping anvils. Boxcars put his book down and gave Droog a look.  
"We ain't eating yet prissy lady food" He immediately picked the book up again.  
"I wasn't thinking about myself," Droog clarified. He drummed his fingers on the table. "Look, I'll just be frank. Have you noticed anything different about Slick, lately?"  
"Hmm? How so?" He had obviously found a recipe worth looking over and wasn't giving his all to the conversation. Droog continued regardless.  
"He seems a bit..." Droog tried to think of the word least likely to get him stabbed should the conversation be referenced later. "...thicker."  
"What, like thick-headed? Hasn't he always been?"  
"No, I mean, thick around the middle."  
Boxcars reread the same line about four times and it still didn't sink in. He had to accept that his brain was trying to process Droog's words at the same time, so with a heavy sigh he gave in, shoving the book to the side and facing his comrade.  
"You sayin' this is my fault?"  
"Boxcars, you know I would like nothing more than to place all blame on you-"  
"Asshole."  
"-But Slick's responsible for his own choices."  
"So what's the big deal? I always say, Slick could use a little meat on those scrawny bones!" Boxcars laughed.  
"Perhaps. But that's not the point," Droog said humorlessly, and the other man stopped, taking the issue seriously at last. "The point is, Slick doesn't cope well with changes to himself. Remember when he was out of his usual jackets and had to borrow my pinstriped one?"  
"Ohhh, yeah" Boxcars half groaned, half chuckled. "Who could forget that temper tantrum?"  
"Or what about the time he flew into a panic because he thought he had a gray hair?" This time, even Droog had trouble holding back a laugh. "It was days before he remembered that we don't even have hair!"  
"Alright, alright. So what do you want me to do about it?" Boxcars asked after he calmed down. "I'm guessin' you want me to do something. Should I start feeding the boss salads?"  
"Nothing so drastic. Just stop encouraging seconds."  
"I think I can handle that. Also, fuck salads."  
"Ideally, this'll all be over before Slick even notices it started."

They were a bit too late for that. It was approximately one week after that first dinner, and right before the heist. Slick was taking an abnormally long time getting dressed. Slick didn't typically care if he looked presentable, so long as he managed to look threatening, so he never bothered with little things like tucking in his shirt or finding socks sans holes. Furthermore, he had long ago taken a cue from Droog in the clothing department- specifically the part about having more than one suit. However, unlike Droog, who had a multitude of types of suits for a variety of occasions, Slick just bought the same outfit multiple times. That drove Droog up a wall, because he could never tell if Slick was re-wearing the same exact clothes over and over. On the bright side, he never had to waste time choosing what to wear. So when he wasn't immediately out of the room and ready to go, Droog quickly grew impatient. He rapped on the closed door.  
"Slick, hurry up. We're waiting."  
"Just a friggin' minute," Slick answered. "I'll be right um... just hang on."  
"Is everything alright?" Deuce asked, head tilted to the side.  
"I'm about to find out," Droog slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. Slick wasn't even fully dressed. He was struggling with his pants when he heard the door and glared at the interruption.  
"What the hell, Slick?"  
"What the hell, Droog?"  
"Quit fucking around. Now pull up your pants and let's go," Droog started to turn and leave.  
"I cant; they're too tight," Slick mumbled. Droog froze. _Shit. Well, maybe he thinks they were shrunk in the wash._ "Fucking hell, I'm not putting on weight, am I?" _Shit._  
"Just... just suck it in, and let's go," Droog rubbed the bridge of his nose. Slick looked over at him and shot him such a piercing stare that Droog almost wished he would've just stabbed him.  
"I cant suck in my thighs, shit-for-brains!"  
Normally, such a comment would immediately be followed by a good cuestick drubbing, but Droog forgave him this once. While Slick appeared to be aggressive on the surface, Droog knew he was on the defensive. Slick gave the pants a good tug, and Droog jumped.  
"Stop it, you're going to tear them!" he began to lunge forward but had no plan in mind.  
"Nuh-uh," Slick tugged again and the pants were on. The problem wasn't solved though, as he had difficulty zipping them up over his somewhat rounded stomach.  
"It's cool, it's cool, I've got this," he said more to himself than Droog, who rolled his eyes.  
"I told you, 'you don't need thirds on dessert', tonight, but did you listen? No!"  
"Hey, I didn't even finish seconds," Slick pouted.  
"Oh," Droog shut up, feeling a bit lost. He couldn't very well reprimand Slick, so-  
"Are you just gonna stand there or help me?" Slick asked, prompting Droog into making a decision. He aided Slick in pulling up the stubborn zipper, and Slick was able to fasten the button after sucking in his stomach. Unfortunately, the pants still dug into his front and sides.  
I don't think I can move" he commented. "And this is really uncomfortable."  
"You're telling me!" Droog sneered. Slick gave him a look like a kicked puppy.  
"Oh I'm so sorry, but we cant all be Black Inches models like you, Droog," he finished by crossing his arms and turning away.  
"Don't give me that melodrama," Droog sighed, but tried to be understanding. "I don't care what size you are, if you don't wear clothes which fit, they'll look bad."  
Slick dropped his arms. "Well... you know I don't have any other pants," Droog didn't respond and Slick was almost afraid of what that meant. He slowly turned and Droog was grinning from ear to ear. It was a genuine smile, too, and Slick couldn't decide if that made it worse or better.  
"What."  
"We'll just have to take you shopping for more clothes then, won't we?" Droog said, his face lighting up the more he spoke. "We can buy pants and shoes and maybe a watch and shoes and shoes-" Slick beckoned him closer. Droog obeyed, and Slick grabbed his face.  
"Droog! Focus!" The smile faded from the taller man's countenance and he gently moved Slick's hands away.  
"I hope you realize that you're the only one allowed to do that," Droog stepped away to think. "Are you certain you have no other pants?"  
"Just pajamas" Droog's eye twitched but he inquired as to what they looked like anyway. "They're in the bottom drawer," Slick pointed to his chest of drawers. Droog pulled out a plethora of tacky matching pajama tops and bottoms, including ones with scottie dogs on them and ones adorned with eight balls. He held the latter up.  
"Really? _Really?_ "  
"Hey, I didn't pick them. That's Snowman's doing."  
"As a gift?"  
"She tied them to a brick and threw it at my head."  
Droog continued digging until he found a pair of black pajamas bottom which didn't look too worn out. He tossed them Slick-ward. The pants were quickly swapped around.  
"Godhead, that's better" Slick, who had been standing rather stiffly, allowed himself to relax. He rubbed his side where the other waistband had been. "But now what? I cant just go on a heist like this; I'll look ridiculous"  
"The rest of your clothes will be normal," Droog managed to stop himself before adding the word "idiot" or "moron" to the end.  
"I am such an idiot," Slick face-palmed and, muttering to himself, found a clean shirt. Well, a clean-smelling shirt, at least. It was irritatingly snug and left no room to the imagination, but it fit. More or less. Droog handed him his trenchcoat and hat. After putting them on, Slick caught a glimpse of himself in a full length mirror. (Another gift from Snowman, which they later found had a spy camera installed in it. Now it had a large crack in it.)

"I don't know about this," Slick stared judgmentally at his reflection.  
"We're sneaking into our enemy's mansion in the dark of the night. Who's going to see you?" Droog reminded him flippantly. "Besides, even if Stitch tricks us and the Felt are there, they can't say anything. They wear flesh colored suits for crying out loud!" Droog made a face and Slick giggled.  
"Wait a minute- so do we!"  
"True, but we're not lime green." Slick turned back to the mirror and his smile faded.  
"Even with the coat buttoned, you can tell that I've let myself go."  
"Would you stop looking at yourself?" Droog said, starting to feel aggravated. "Actually, I've got an idea. Pretend your reflection is an impostor. A fake trying to besmirch your badass name." Slick cocked his head to the side in confusion but gave Droog's command a try.  
"Who do you think you are" Slick began chastising his counterpart. "Walking around here like y- Droog, I can't do this. I feel stupid."  
"Keep at it," Droog said confidently.

Slick looked himself in the eyes, and was rendered temporarily mute. He remembered those eyes. Those were eyes of self-loathing, of impossibly high standards, and above all else, uncertainty. Mostly, they were the eyes of Jack Noir. He lowered his gaze and took off his hat, commenting in a voice scarcely audible:

"I'm the damned impostor."

Droog's eyes went wide and the confident air evaporated.  
"No, Spades, no, no, no," he rushed over to his boss and gently papped him on the cheek. "Come on, chin up," Slick didn't want to respond. "That was a bad idea; I shouldn't have..." he trailed off, not knowing what to say. It was a cinch handling Slick when he attacked others. This was a bit more complicated. But maybe it didn't have to be.  
"Let's just leave. You'll feel better once you've gotten out," he took him by the hand and started to walk, but Slick's feet were planted firmly to the floor.  
"Just go," Slick said quietly. "You guys can handle this without me," Droog didn't respond, and after a moment of stillness, loosened his grip.  
"Alright," he spoke coolly. "If that's how it's going to be, then so be it," and he smoothly exited the room and closed the door. Slick sat on the end of the bed and stared at his feet.

Before he even had the chance to gather his thoughts, the door creaked open. It was Deuce.  
"You gonna try giving me a shitty pep talk too?" Slick asked bitterly.  
"Nope! Droog told me to torture you until you agreed to come!" Deuce seemed a bit too chipper about it.  
"Great," Slick shook his head. Deuce would probably make him walk around with his shoes on the wrong feet or something equally pathetic. "What do I need to do?"  
"Just sit there," Deuce took a deep breath and belted out. "HOW DO I LIIIVE WITHOUT YOOOU!? I WANT TO KNOW!" he sang with the voice of a dove. A dove that got caught in a wheat thresher. "HOW DO I BREEEATHE WITHOUT YOU" By that point, Slick was digging his fingers into his ears.  
"Okay, okay, I'll go!" he sobbed. "Just make it stop!" Deuce swung the door open the rest of the way. Droog and Boxcars were waiting outside it.  
"I got him!" Deuce reported victoriously.  
"So I see. Good job," Droog answered, almost smiling. "Boxcars, I guess we won't be needing your help with this." The large Dersite nodded and backed off, carrying his TV antenna and a burlap sack. Slick watched as he walked. "Do I want to know?"  
"It's really not a-"  
"We were going to knock you out and drag you along," Deuce answered. Droog winced but Slick just laughed.  
"You guys sure are thorough" he hopped up from the bed and put his hat back on. "Sorry to hold up the show. Now let's get those feltbags! Er, douchefelts. Douchfeltbags?" The other three looked back and forth at one another as their boss tried to think of an appropriate, disparaging moniker. "Eh. Those fuckers!" he eventually settled. Boxcars and Deuce cheered. They ran ahead, but Droog held Slick back.  
"Are you quite done with this seven-sweep old troll girl business?" he asked somewhat sardonically. Slick brushed him off.  
"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine."  
"You'll 'be'?" Droog repeated. "In other words, you're not fine now?" Slick shrugged.  
"Hey, maybe you're right about me needing to get out," he followed the others and Droog trailed behind him. "It has been a while since we’ve done something like this." But Droog could tell, that even as he spoke hopefully, his voice strained, as though he were trying to convince himself, and his normally stomp-y gait had more of a shuffle to it. Droog put his arm around the shorter one's shoulders and together they approached the ladder leading into the night.


	5. Joy Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clover causes Slick, Boxcars, and Deuce to crash their car. Slick loses an eye.

"Hey, Boss?" Deuce began in a curious tone, twiddling a stick of dynamite between his three fingers. "Why are we doing this, anyway?"  
"Doing what? Paying the Felt a visit? 'Cause they started it. Why? You ain't backin' out now, are ya?" Slick turned behind him to address Deuce in the back seat of the car. "And stop messing with that thing. You're making me nervous."  
"Sorry!" Deuce gently placed his temporary toy on the seat next to him. "And I'm not backing out! No sir, I've been so excited about tonight! It's just, well, Crowbar said he'd pay for the damages to our hideout, right? So why do we need to get back at them?"  
"Well, ya see, Deuce- hang on" Slick removed his seat belt, allowing him to turn around and speak to Deuce more easily. Boxcars, who was driving, furrowed his brows.  
"Slick, put yer seat belt back on," his voice low and serious.  
"Don't tell me what to do!" Slick snapped and Boxcars growled softly in response, but finally gave up.  
"Fine, but I ain't scrapin' yer carcass off the pavement if we crash."  
"Whatever. So as I was sayin'," Slick turned back to Deuce, "Before I was so rudely interrupted," here he glared pointedly at Boxcars, "It's not about the money. Actually it is, but not in the way you're saying. We need to teach Crowbar that he can't just go around fucking with people and thinking he can make everything all better with a bunch of cash." Before he could start the next sentence, the car swerved and Slick was tossed about like a ragdoll. Once everything was obviously under control, Slick sat back down properly and did as Boxcars ordered earlier. His rapid breathing slowed, and the mortal terror that consumes the mind during times of great duress was soon replaced by a blinding rage.

"Boxcars," He began through clenched teeth, practically foaming at the mouth. "What the fuck was that?"  
"Thought I saw a little critter in the road," Boxcars' wide grin belied his explanation. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Did I scare you?" The sarcasm did him in. Had he been using his brain, he would have stopped sooner. Of course, he wasn't afraid of Slick attacking him, but considering the circumstances, he probably should have been. Slick lashed out with a fury. Although he did not cause Boxcars any real injury, the attack was enough to disrupt his driving. He swerved back and forth across the road as pointy limbs randomly swung in front of his face and obscured his vision. Meanwhile, Deuce slid back and forth across the back seat.  
"Get off, Slick!"  
"ajgfgfhhfhfaif"  
"WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEE..."  
"Get off! I can't see!"  
"aargrasnarlanfgnja"  
"...EEEEEEEEEE- Whoa!"

A particularly nasty bump in the road made everything go haywire. Slick backed off, Boxcars put both hands on the wheel in a death grip, and Deuce stopped screaming cheerfully. The car resumed its intended pathway. Slick and Boxcars spoke nothing to one another for a long time, which worried Deuce. He did not see them give each other a quick look that resolved everything, a look that said, "All is forgiven. Don't mess with me; I won't mess with you." Because he did not see this, he dreaded a strife which could escalate into the danger zone without the influence of Droog's moirallegiance. But Droog could not be with them, as he offered to drive all the supplies they would be using to the Felt's mansion. (If he were caught, he could sweet talk his way out of trouble.) And because of Droog's absence, Deuce had to put his auspisticing skills to good use. Perhaps a DISTACTION would do the trick.  
"What were you saying earlier, Boss?" He tried asking a simple question.  
"Oh yeah," Slick started, his tone a bit more light-hearted. Crisis averted. That was easy enough. "We've gotta send the Felt the message that there are real repercussions for their actions. there’s not an easy fix for everything"  
"But Droog bribes people all the time."  
"Yeah, well..." Slick tried to think of some sort of justification for his partner's criminal behavior and failed. "I dunno, Droog just does it better, I guess," he trailed off, mumbling about whether or not he should speak with Droog over the matter.  
"Okay," Deuce relaxed, content with both the reply and his own auspisticing. At least, until clarity reached him.  
"But what if the Felt don't see it like this and they attack us again?"  
"I fully anticipate that," Slick said with a hint of a smirk. "And when they come at us, we'll be ready"

After a bit more driving, Boxcars suddenly opened his mouth in a wide yawn.  
"You gonna be okay? Don't fall asleep on me," Slick joked.  
"I'm fine," Boxcars rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger briefly. "I guess. Probably shoulda had more sleep or coffee."  
"You wanna pull over and switch places?" Boxcars shook his head and insisted once more that he was fine. "Come on," Slick whined. "I promise I'll follow all the- whadeya call em?"  
"Traffic laws."  
"Yeah, those!"  
Boxcars replied with a firm "No". He tried to continue, "Last time I let you drive my-" he had to stop to yawn again.  
"See? See?" Slick pointed. "You're in no condition to drive. Now pull over, or I'll stab ya."  
"No you won't," Boxcars said, sounding ever more fatigued, but still confident in his logic. "That would just make things worse."  
"Then I'll stab Deuce."  
"Hey!" Deuce protested.  
"You wouldn't dare!"  
"Watch me," Slick tore off his seat belt, whipped out a knife and turned to the back seat. He flashed Deuce the quickest of grins, and Deuce grinned back, winking. He yelped in mock surprise as Slick stabbed the seat.  
"Alright, alright! You win!" Boxcars finally consented in legitimate panic, pulling off to the curb. The three members of the Midnight Crew then made like the occupants at the Mad Hatter's tea party. Slick took the wheel, Deuce assumed shotgun, and Boxcars lied down in the back.  
"Try to get some sleep before we get there," Slick commanded. After adjusting the seat and mirrors, Slick slammed on the accelerator and took off. Deuce threw his arms in the air.  
"Hey!" he heard Boxcars shout from the backseat.  
"Oh right," Slick let off the gas and Deuce lowered his head dolefully.

He ran a few stop signs and sped all the way, but for the most part Slick's driving was acceptable- except for that one corner he took too fast and for a split second the car was up on two wheels. After that, Boxcars gave up on trying to sleep, opting to backseat drive instead.

"Get your paws off," Slick smacked him away as he looped his arms around Slick's chair and grabbed at the steering wheel.  
"Then learn how to turn a damn corner."  
"If you two don't stop fighting, I will light this dynamite, I swear to Godhead!"  
Boxcars leaned back and Slick looked straight ahead.  
"Sorry, Deuce" they mumbled in contrition.  
In the interest of efficiency, from that point onward, Slick drove a bit more sensibly and Boxcars watched cautiously, but made only the odd comment. For example,  
"Hey Boss, I think the guy behind us wants ta pass us."  
"Fuck him. I ain't slowin' down."  
"He seems pretty impatient," Boxcars added, looking out the back window.  
"Yeah, no kiddin'. Stupid fuckers eating my ass."  
Just as he spoke, the car behind them rammed into them.  
"Oh, that is fucking it! Someone get a gun and shoot this douchebag's tires out!"  
"We can't! Droog has all our weapons, remember?"  
"Son of a fuck!" Slick's last words were in response to both Deuce's reminder, and the car ramming them a second time. He slammed on the gas, but the aggressor did likewise.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the driver of the other car yelled at his passenger, who had crawled onto the floor to mess with the pedals.  
"Third time's a charm! Hehehe!"

The other car rammed into the Midnight Crew's one final time, at a slight angle. Slick lost control and the vehicle veered off into a ditch. Their temporary adversary, a, _wait, was that a taxi cab?_ hightailed it away.

Once he established that he had mercifully been inflicted with just a few bruises, Boxcars checked on the other two. Slick was holding the side of his face and spouting profanities. _Good. Still conscious._ Deuce was nowhere to be found, but the windshield in front of him was shattered... oh, no. Oh FUCK no.  
"Boss, think you can hang on a minute? I need to find Deuce."  
Slick didn't answer and Boxcars didn't wait. He got out and ran in the direction Deuce was likely catapulted. The alarm he endured was instantly assuaged as he saw Deuce with nary a scratch running towards him.  
"Yer okay!" Boxcars hollered, picking up his comrade in celebration.  
"Hey, hey" Deuce laughed. "Come on, you know I've been through worse than that." Just as he was putting Deuce back down, they heard Slick's anguished, swear-laden cry. Boxcars' jovial expression turned grave.  
"I guess Slick was hurt pretty bad," Boxcars said with worry.  
They rushed over to the car. In the time that Boxcars and Deuce were out of it, Slick had analyzed his face in the rear-view mirror. It was less pretty than usual. He hid his face in his hands once again, and Boxcars had to coax them away. Blood caked on Slick's cheek, the result of a dreadful trauma to the eye. He gave Slick his jacket to wipe away the blood. Maybe it was a minor wound.  
"Can you see through it?" Deuce wondered uneasily.  
"No" Slick answered weakly.  
"Don't worry, Boss. We'll fix this somehow," Boxcars awkwardly attempted putting a comforting arm around Slick. If only Droog were here! Slick bristled at the touch and, fast as a whip, pulled a knife out and slashed at Boxcars' chest. He had only intended to scratch his carapace, but due to his lack of depth perception, gave him a nasty gash.  
"Oh my goodness!" Deuce yelped. He scrambled around, searching the car for a first aid kit for everyone. Swears poured from Slick's mouth in an indiscernible manner, and Boxcars held his chest.

Meanwhile, Droog stood outside his van, smoking a cigarette. The Felt property was mere yards away. Alright, one more drive around the block. If those three dolts weren't there, he was driving back to the hideout.


	6. Fate and Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get to the Felt mansion. Deuce and Boxcars go to the billiards room. Snowman and Slick have a chat.

Far in the distance, across vast stretches of road, lay the Midnight City. Party-goers, hoodlums, ne'er-do-wells and generally anyone looking to throw their cares away were bustling about, painting the town red. A cacophony of slurs, intoxicated warbling, and broads screeching as they greeted one another filled the city with a steady roar. From Diamonds Droog's perspective, loitering outside the Felt Manor, it was naught but a slight hum. A buzz from a fly, nothing but pest and pestilence.

He took a final drag on his cigarette, then dropped it, snuffing it out with the end of his cue stick. His shoes would remain unsoiled by such an act. Here, Droog observed the stillness in the night air. Save for his own, there were no actions to be perceived. The manor seemed to loom overhead, bearing all the usual trappings of a place of residence, but with that little something just off. It was uncanny, and likely due to the lack of Felt stirring up their typical trouble inside its walls. The phrase "dead of the night" began to feel more and more apt as the seconds ticked past, and Droog started to get antsy. As he retrieved another cigarette, a sudden change in atmosphere transformed his restlessness into unsteadiness- in multiple senses of the term. The ground trembled ever so slightly beneath his feet. Quakes weren't common around that part of Alternia, so either that was Cans really far away, or Hearts Boxcars fairly close by.

Auspiciously, it was Hearts Boxcars, with Spades Slick and Clubs Deuce scurrying along to match his wide gait. They were also curiously sans car.

"Where have you been? I've been waiting here for nearly-" Droog hissed as loud as he could afford. He stopped abruptly as he noted the lack of any sort of transportation, other than their own feet. Boxcars, the only one of the three in what could be considered shape, and thus, not out of breath, answered. As he explained how they had been run off the road and had to leave the totaled car in a ditch and book it the rest of the way on foot, Droog nodded in that patronizingly polite way people are wont to do when they either a) think you're full of crap, or b) can scarcely believe you're not full of crap, but hey, there you go. Droog pinched the bridge of the nose.

"Really? Really? That's the third car in two months! I swear, you three would somehow manage to drown in the toilet if I weren't there to supervise," he half ranted, half chastised.  
"I don't think Boxcars would fit in a toilet," Deuce began, pointlessly. "Maybe if he stuck his head down it, but that sounds more like Slick's thing. You know, if he were really drunk and someone dared him to." The other three stared at him. One of these days they would become accustomed to Deuce's rambles. Obviously now was not the time.

"That's enough fucking around," Slick growled, making his way forward. As he brushed past Droog, the taller man could see him better. He had noticed Slick was holding the side of his face, but had simply chalked it up to a headache or frustration, possibly over the loss of the car. Now, he could see the hand covered a shoddy, improvised bandage. Patches of dried blood dotted his hand and face.

"What're you lookin' at?"

Droog's heart leaped in his throat, and he steeled himself at the sight. _Or, if I weren't there to supervise, something like this might happen._ He grabbed Slick's arm and pulled it away from his face. The grisly bandage covered the entirety of Slick's eye.

"What have you got yourself into this time," Droog sighed, once he was certain he could prevent his voice from shaking. Slick twisted his arm out of Droog's grip.  
"Nothing. Let's just get on with this." Droog watched, distressed, as Slick opened the van and began removing their instruments of destruction. Then he turned to Boxcars.  
"You left out part of the story, Boxcars," Droog said in a low register.  
"That's 'cause it's not even worth mentioning. Ain't like I don't have a whole 'nother eyeball," Slick spat bitterly. He shoved some equipment into Droog's arms and resumed his work. The rest shrugged off the issue, seeing as the one it affected most evidently had done so long ago, and got to work as well. They sneaked up to the manor, a needless method of movement, considering they were the only living souls around. Even if witnesses were in their midst, their sleek black carapaces and suits kept them hidden in the dark night. When they started up the stairs leading to the front door, Slick pawed at Droog's arm for support, unsure of his ability to navigate the steep slope without depth perception. It was not altogether clear whether Slick was intentionally or subconsciously reaching out for help, but Droog, in a rare show of good will, opted not to press the matter further. He shifted his cargo to one arm and let Slick have the other.

So diligent, so focused were they on the task of hauling everything inside the manor, that nobody ever noticed the small green figure slip by. Each time all four looked away, Clover darted between the trees, winding up by the cellar door. The sound of said door opening and closing was obscured by the coincidental timing of Slick swearing louder than he should have at breaking another lock pick on the front door.

"Let me try it, Slick," Droog offered his assistance. Slick denied him.  
"Almost got it. Just a few more- sonuvabitch!"  
"I can get that door open fer ya," Boxcars was next to chime in.  
"You're just gonna tear it off its hinges," Slick manipulated the lock pick more carefully the following time. It still snapped.  
"What's yer point?"  
"If we want to send a message," Slick enunciated deliberately, trying to concentrate, "The message won't get through if we start destroying everything haphazardly. Got it!"

The door, now unlocked, was no longer an obstacle. Slick pushed it open, forcing it to yield the way to vengeance. However, he did open it delicately, not eager to potentially get caught by someone- Felt or otherwise- lurking in the shadows. Inside, the coast was clear.  
"Well, I suppose Stitch kept up his end of the bargain," Droog commented.  
"'Bargain'," Slick repeated, questioning. "What's he getting outta this?"  
"Laughs. His word, not mine," Droog confirmed. Slick grinned.  
"Okay, maybe he's not all bad," Immediately after everyone was inside and the door closed again, Slick peered back and forth, then spoke in somewhat hushed tones.  
"You all remember what you have to do, yeah?"  
"I'm going to set up the explosives in the billiards room!" Deuce piped up.  
"Got the map? Or do you know where the room is?"  
"I memorized the layout of the mansion."  
Slick nodded approvingly. "Good man. Now how 'bout the rest of you?"  
"I'll help Deuce carry alla the stuff and protect him from any rogue torsos."  
"Right. Droog?"  
"I'm going to stand right here with my thumb up my ass."  
"I don't really give a damn what you do in the meanwhile. Just make sure you watch out for the Felt arriving earlier than expected," Droog crossed his arms and turned away. Slick ignored him and continued. "I'll search the house for any Felt hiding out," He spent the next few minutes briefing the crew on where he anticipating being at any given time, when Deuce should set off the explosions, and what they should do if they encountered some trouble.  
"Stop, drop and roll!" Boxcars' contribution.  
"Just say no!" Deuce's contribution.  
"Pretend I don't know you people," Droog's contribution.  
"Only if Matchsticks finds you, only if Itchy finds you, fuck you too sweetheart," Slick clarified. Droog blew him a kiss, which Slick caught and impaled into the floor with a knife. "Now let's have some fun!"

Boxcars and Deuce gathered up the equipment with the help of the others, then raced off, large grins plastered to their faces. Slick watched them until they were out of sight. Trusting that they had everything under control, he went his own way. At least, he did until Droog stopped him.

"I don't suppose I could convince you to switch places with me," Droog called out. Slick, who had been scampering away, skidded to a stop. He turned to Droog with a cheeky smile.  
"Don't think I don't get your game. You want to do something less boring than what I've assigned you. But hell, maybe you'll get lucky and they'll come back early."  
"Godhead forbid. No, actually I was thinking about you. Can you really afford to run around, looking for goons, in your condition?"  
"More like, can I afford not to run around in my condition?" Slick responded, clutching a handful of his pudgy midsection and making a face. Droog's eye twitched.  
"I'm talking about your injury, you incredible imbecile!" Droog snapped viciously. "How the fuck can you be thinking about your figure when you may well have lost half your vision?!" Slick gaped at him. Droog panted heavily and rapidly for a moment, before his eyes went wide. He clasped both hands over his mouth. Emotional outbursts weren't typically his thing. Slick looked at the floor.  
"One thing at a time," he muttered, mostly inwardly. Once he collected himself, and was certain Droog had done the same, he spoke to the both of them.  
"Are we done here? By now I really should be in the study," Droog let his arms drop to his sides and his shoulders slumped.  
"I suppose if I can't convince you..." he trailed off and Slick nodded. He headed away, and Droog added one final comment.  
"It would be nice if you didn't worry me like this," he turned to the window, assuming the conversation was over. But Slick wasn't willing to let that comment go so easily.

"The fuck did you say?" Slick snarled, his voice dark. Droog spun around to see Slick just standing there, hands locked into a claw-like position, and raised one eyebrow in confusion.  
"What?" he asked, "I told you that you could go on-" He froze mid-sentence as Slick whipped around, staring him dead in the eyes with the most disconcerting expression. Before Droog had a chance to register it or even what emotion Slick was displaying, the other man was up in his face. Next thing he knew, Slick had him backed up against the wall.  
"I worry you? Heh. Doesn't it just figure," He raised his head towards the ceiling and laughed, gazing off in an introspective manner. While he realized he could have used that opportunity to escape, Droog decided against it. For one thing, it would probably bite him in the ass later. For another, he kind of wanted- no, he did to want to- no, he needed to hear where Slick was going with all that.

"Doesn't it just figure?" Slick continued. "Ya survive the harshest climates and conditions, build a city from the ground up, lead the most feared gang around, and still ya got everyone actin' like you’re a fucking burden!" He shouted the penultimate and ultimate words. Droog was left sputtering incomprehensibly.  
"Whoa! Wha- burden? I don't- where's all this coming from?"  
"Don't play dumb, you patronizing shit. I get it. I get it all. You don't think I can be trusted. What's the deal? You think I'll do something stupid? 'Cause I'm younger than you? Am I like a little wriggler in your eyes, needs their claw held all the time? Or what?"  
"Slick, you're overreacting," Droog raised a hand to his moirail's cheek. Slick caught it, clutching at the fabric of Droog's jacket.  
"Don't you dare fucking shoosh pap me" he hissed, his lip curled up. He clutched tighter, tearing the jacket sleeve. "I am talking here," Droog's eyes flickered down to his arm, and back up.  
"You are ruining my clothes. Now, I love you, so I will give you five seconds. Once those are up, I tear you limb from limb. Understand?" Slick merely howled with laughter.  
"You think you can frighten me? Threaten me? You have absolutely no idea what I- what?" Slick changed his tune upon noticing that Droog was no longer looking at him, but slightly behind him.

"Lovely evening, wouldn't you say so, gentlemen?" purred a low, feminine voice behind them. Slick released Droog and, after sucking in his stomach, reluctantly turned to Snowman. She cocked her head to the side.  
"Aw, what's the matter?" she pouted. "Trouble in paradise?" Slick and Droog sheepishly looked at one another out of the corners of their eyes. Snowman wrapped her arm around Slick's neck. "Those wouldn't have been stirrings of blackrom I just observed, would they?"  
"No, madam. Slick was just being problematic," Droog answered. Slick glared at him and started to retort, but was prevented from doing so when Snowman applied a choke hold.  
"That is good to know," she smiled. "I'd be ever so distraught if my favorite puppy found a new chew toy- ow! Hey!" Slick managed to stomp her on shoe and bite her on the arm.  
"Careful what say," Droog warned. "He seems to be sensitive about his age. Or weight. Or the fact that he just lost an eye. Honestly, I've lost track."

Snowman released Slick to get a good look at him. "Well, so you have," she remarked, regarding Slick's unfortunate mishap for the first time. "Does it hurt?"  
"No," Slick lied. "Not a bit."  
"Hmm," Snowman peered at him, the corners of her mouth hinting at a smirk. Quick as could be, she withdrew her lance and prodded at the bandage. Slick let loose a strangled yell and batted the cigarette holder away.  
"How about now?" The smirk on Snowman's visage came into being and slowly evolved into a sharp-toothed grin as Slick muttered a string of expletives. She patted him not-so-gently on the back. "Don't get your panties in a twist. You do still have another eye, after all," At her words, Slick instantly stopped swearing. He raised his brows and his face seemed to light up.  
"Yeah... yeah, you're right!" Slick turned to Droog. "Ha! Didya hear? She said-" Snowman clamped a hand down on Slick's shoulder.  
"Calm down. Now, what exactly are you two doing here?" she looked back and forth between the two of them. "From what clues I have gathered, you plan on destroying something of ours..." she paused deliberately, as though waiting for one of them to fill in the blank. Droog rolled his eyes.  
"You were eavesdropping on my conversation with Stitch, weren't you?" Snowman shrugged innocently.  
"Quarters and I have been taking bets on when you two are going to admit your caliginous feelings for one another. So what are you going to wreck? Oh, please tell me it's the billiards room! I have been begging Crowbar to renovate that for the past I don't know how many sweeps," Slick smacked his forehead. Snowman made a noise akin to a squeal.  
"Is anyone gonna be pissed off by this?" Slick threw his arms out in desperation. Snowman gazed upward, looking thoughtful.  
"We'll most likely make Itchy and Eggs clean up the debris, so they might be pissed."  
"I guess that's a start."  
"At any rate, it's so good to see you out and about," Snowman sighed wistfully. "It feels like its been sweeps since you've last stopped by to torment us!" A bashful Slick looked down at his shoes.  
"It's... it's been complicated," he mumbled guiltily. Snowman ignored him and went on. "What I wouldn't give for one measly bag of lusus excrement set alight and placed upon our front porch," Her lips pursed, contorted into a uncomfortable position, as though being forced, before they split open. She snickered maniacally. "Do you remember the last time you did that? And Die of all people opened the door? And he was wearing those expensive shoes?" she failed to continue her train of thought as she burst out laughing. Slick was right there with her. She wiped away a tear. "Seriously, it could not have happened to a better person. Die is such a cock." Droog sneered at the thought of befouled shoes.

"Understand, Slick, this is why people might not respect you. It's not that you're young, it's that you act five sweeps younger than you actually are," Droog scolded. Slick crossed his arms and huffed indignantly. "Stop proving my point." Snowman gestured for Droog to back off.  
"I-need-to-talk-to-him" she mouthed. Droog nodded and obeyed, but indicated that he would continue watching from a distance.

Once Droog was out of earshot, or at the very least, respectfully pretending to be out of earshot, Snowman addressed Slick. She placed a clawed finger under his chin, forcing his face up to hers.

"What's become of you, Jack?" her voice tinged with a hint of sorrow, but mostly melancholy. He took the chance of being gouged through the throat by her formidable phalanges and looked away. "It's like you're a shell of your old self. Where's that hyperactive, obnoxious little prick that I know and hate?" Slick didn't respond, which briefly worried Snowman. Even she wasn't immune to occasional bouts of self-doubt. "It's not because of me, is it? Have I been... tolerable?"  
"No, you're just as much of a terrible person as ever," Slick said. Although his inflection wasn't particularly convincing, he looked her in the eyes and said it, and so she believed him.

"So, what is it?" Snowman continued with a weak smile. "Where's the man who was responsible for my downfall, thus resulting in me finding family and a sense of belonging?" she gestured to the manor which surrounded them. "The man who thwarts me every step of the way, prompting me to find alternate methods to achieve my goals? The man who makes my life such a living hell, that I feel I have nothing to fear?"

Slick's mouth twitched, a grin forming.

"You've been such a pivotal part of my existence. At the risk of sounding sappy, I can't imagine it without you," Snowman took his hands in hers, making sure to dig in with her nails. "For all that you have done, I cannot even begin to thank you. Or forgive you."

"Godhead, I hate you," Slick gasped, tearing away his hands, and bringing her down to her knees. Now face to face, he kissed her roughly on the mouth. His fangs nearly pierced her lip, and she growled in painful ecstasy. But then, her hands started roaming, and a wave of self-consciousness came over her kismesis. Slick jumped back, mumbling incoherently about needing to get to work. Snowman shrugged and got to her feet.

"I swear, you are going to be the death of my knees," she said, more as an aside. "I'll let you get back to your shenanigans," she kissed him on the forehead. "Just remember what you're capable of. After all, in a roundabout way, my identity as Snowman is because of you."

Something clicked in Slick's brain.

"But you're not Snowman. You're the Black Queen. Snowman is just-"  
"Pardon me?" Snowman interrupted in a sinister tone. "Did you just tell me who I am?" She grabbed him by the neck and lifted him clear off the ground. He clutched her arms to prevent from being strangled and kicked wildly. He missed each time by miles. "Nobody gets to say who I am but me!" she roared. "Is that clear?" Slick kept fighting. "Is. That. Clear." she repeated, enunciating every syllable. He went limp.  
"Yes, ma'am."  
"Good," she dropped him unceremoniously. As he picked himself up, she sauntered off. "I'm glad we had this discussion, Jacky."  
He snorted derisively. "Hey waitaminute, how come you get to be Snowman, but I still have to be Jack Noir?"  
"That's not up to me to decide. Oh, by the way," she added as she faded away, "You can exhale now." The sound of her tittering was all that remained.

Droog rejoined his boss.  
"Whatta bitch."  
"You gotta love her," Droog shrugged, amused.  
"Yeah, maybe I'll send her some flowers," Slick pondered. "Like some wilted, pathetic looking ones" Droog nodded approvingly. After a pause, Slick drew in a breath, to indicate that his next sentence would be of pressing nature.

"Let me do this," he demanded, speaking quickly, as though trying to get it out all at once. It took Droog a moment to realize that he was referring to the act of scoping out the manor. He was slightly baffled, as he had already agreed to that. And anyway...  
"Slick, you're my boss," he reminded him. "I don't have the authority to tell you what you can or can't do."  
"No, I mean no matter what happens," Slick hesitated, and only slightly for the sake of emphasis. He swallowed. "No matter what happens, you can't get mad." Droog didn't quite understand, but still he complied. Slick grinned and scurried away, leaving the other man with naught but his thoughts, the ostentatious decor, and an eerie silence punctuated by the odd chime.


	7. Close Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slick finds Die and traps him in the study. Deuce and Boxcars have a battle of wits with Clover. Droog does not think about Slick’s ass.

Dual, patent leather clad feet of vastly contrary dimensions tramped across marble floors and horrifically outdated shag carpet. Darkness flooded each room thoroughly enough to inspire fantastical visions to those with high levels of imagination. Rooms located near the edges of the manor, and thus, in close proximity to outer light sources, were bathed in eerie pink and green glows, scattered about at random intervals. The light spilled in from windows once lavishly designed but clearly no longer cared for with the same devotion, creating a dirty, hazy effect. Ticks, tocks, chimes, bongs, and other onomatopoeias sounded regularly, and sometimes irregularly. At times, it seemed the very manor itself was speaking. Clubs Deuce and Hearts Boxcars paid it no mind, but marched towards their target with the exact same amount of covertness one would expect from an excitable man child in the presence of many fascinating time keeping devices and his very, very large companion.

Spades Slick jerked anxiously as the chandelier over his head wobbled. But beyond that, Deuce's impassioned squeal over an antique grandfather clock provided much needed assurance. Slick breathed a sigh of relief, for once grateful for the little Dersite's love of those disgusting clocks. All else was calm.

In record time, Deuce and Boxcars arrived at the billiards room, the most significant room in the mansion- at least from a representational standpoint- if not the most immaculate. In addition to being the four walled likeness of the gang's very theme, it was also the favored haunt of most individual members. Even considering the sheer size of the abode, this would be one attack by the Midnight Crew that the Felt could not possibly miss.

But Deuce, perhaps inspired by the shadowy mirages dancing about- birthed by low flames encased in sconces entirely out of place, style-wise- was struck with an inordinate surge in imagination levels. He had a plan to drive the point home even further.

The two men stalked into the room, ready for a brawl in the off chance that one of the Felt was present, possibly passed out drunk under the pool table, and irate over having been disturbed from their intoxicated slumber. It wouldn't be the first occurrence.

"The coast is clear," Deuce whispered loudly, rapidly beckoning Boxcars to follow him inside.  
"As far as we can tell," Boxcars added. "Ya gotta keep yer eyes and ears open at all times when yer dealing with these time-traveling assholes."  
"Yeah! We have to be on our guard," Deuce agreed. "Now help me set up these explosives."  
Their system was simple. Deuce directed, Boxcars did as directed. They moved with a rhythm that might have been heartening had it not all been an introduction to wanton destruction.  
"Is that all?" Boxcars wiped the sweat from his brow with an abandoned green tailcoat. Deuce responded with a sly grin, eyes darting back and forth. This was not for the sake of caution, but rather to size up his options. He peered into the pool table and stared longingly at the numbered balls inside, when the gears in his mind went into motion.  
"Your axe, please," Deuce gestured to the green game. Boxcars nodded, a bit confused, after all, what purpose was there to dismantling individual parts when all would be demolished at once? But Deuce looked certain, and when Deuce looked certain, it meant he had a good idea. Or at least an entertaining one. He cleaved the table in two with his battleaxe, and Deuce scrambled forth to procure the spoils. Boxcars assisted him in gathering up the pool balls after seeing him struggle to keep them all in his arms. In addition to those, Deuce also insisted on collecting the pool cues, chalk, and triangle. Upon Deuce's instruction, they dragged the effects out of the room.

"What's all this, anyway?" Boxcars' curiosity finally won out.  
"Arts and crafts."

As soon as he was out of Droog's line of sight, Slick kicked off his shoes. It simply wouldn't do to make any more noise than necessary. After all, the primary purpose of the heist was not murder, and none of them were entirely prepared for any sort of strife. Best to just avoid it whenever possible. He made a mental note of where he left his shoes. Droog would kill him if he lost them again.

He slunk along the walls, creeping up to the door to the study. Closed. His hand reached for the doorknob, but he jerked back upon noticing the barely visible glow underneath the door. The study was favored by both Die and Quarters. Die he could take, assuming he could get the drop on him. He would need backup for Quarters. Normally, such nuances would have escaped him, but normally, the only concern he had on his mind was stabbin'. Now was the chance to put all Droog had taught him about observational skills to good use. And maybe practice a bit of shadow magic.

Violet flames shot effortlessly through his fingertips. With a flick of his wrist, he sent them to his shadow on the wall. The Shadow, previously slouching as did its counterpart, stood at attention. Slick gestured for it to check inside the room. The Shadow faded away and returned shortly after. It held up six fingers.

Slick gave the Shadow a nod, then relieved it of both cognizance and consciousness by absorbing the magic back into his hand. He dragged a heavy chair in front of the door, propping it under the knob to seal its occupant inside, then walked away. Then he walked back. Chances like this didn't come everyday. He placed a violet hand against the wall, concentrated a bit, and his hand melted into his shadow. His arm followed, then the rest of him. The Slick Shadow glided along the wall and through the crack in the door, and finally to the inside wall. In that state, Slick could not see anything, but he could hear the crinkly sound of pages being turned. He cautiously stuck a foot out, then hesitated, waiting to see if the page turning did as well. Luckily, he was safe. Taking the plunge, he emerged from the wall.

Die was sitting in a forest green armchair, facing slightly away from the door. A small stack of books lay at his side. He was too involved in his current tome to notice the intruder from the corner of his eye. Slick, fully aware he was pushing his luck, crept behind the chair. He deftly snatched the voodoo doll which Die had carelessly left on the floor next to him. Feeling rather like he had the upper hand, Slick threw all caution to the wind and made his presence known.

"Hello, Die."  
"Oh fuck! How the fuck did you-" Die jerked, startled. He frantically searched around for his doll before Slick taunted him with it.  
"Looking for this?" he grinned mercilessly. "You should take better care of your things." He turned away as Die lunged forward. "Really, this thing is falling apart." Every time Die made a move, Slick countered. "Stuffing coming loose, one eye's about to go, loose seams. Here, I'll fix it," he whipped out his knife, and Die reacted more precisely, grabbing at Slick's arms. He still wasn't fast enough, and watched in horror as the doll fell from Slick's grasp, slit right through the middle. It turned gray, signifying its uselessness until it could be repaired. In an act of desperation, Die dropped to his knees and collected the remains. Slick tsked at him.  
"Look what you made me do."  
Die turned around and snarled, then remembered the knife still in Slick's hand. He cowered and raised himself slowly off the ground. Glancing behind him to assess the situation, he realized with dismay that there was nowhere to go. He feinted one way, but his enemy did not fall for it. He did, however, miss entirely when he lunged at Die. In that moment, Slick cursed his loss of depth perception and let Die slip away, allowing him access to the door. Of course, it did not budge. Die pushed and Slick laughed.

"What do you want?" Die pounded on the door.  
"Aw, I thought I'd stop by to see how things were," Slick answered facetiously. Without invitation, he picked up the pile of books. "Let's see. 'The Prince'. 'Troll Atlas Shrugged'. 'Troll Mai-chan's Daily Life'. 'How to Manipulate Friends and Murder People'." He paused at that last one and blinked in confusion. "Silly Die, you need to get friends before you can manipulate them."  
"C-Crowbar is..." Die began, stammering. Slick scoffed.  
"You think just 'cause he lets you go down on him he's your friend?" Die turned pale.  
"Whatever he is, he wouldn't let anything happen to me," Die insisted. Slick nodded in agreement, as a devilish smile spread across his features.  
"Of course he wouldn't. Not knowingly, anyway." More and more Slick was taking over the situation. Die grew paler. "Oh, did you think there was a chance of being rescued? Didn't you get the memo? Your friends-" he exaggerated that word. "-left you behind for a night on the town."  
"I declined the invitation-"  
"I'll bet you’re just dying to be with them now!" Slick interrupted, eager to wedge that pun into the conversation.  
"But I happen to know I'm not the only Felt here!" Die finished. For a split second, Slick delayed. Die could have been referring to Snowman, but what if it was someone else? "So if you're going to kill me-" Die droned in his melodramatic voice. Slick formulated a plan.  
"I never intended to kill you," Slick answered. Purple flames moved from his hand into his knife. "but I can't have you ratting me out." Lightning fast, he tossed the knife right into the shadow that was Die's neck. Die collapsed to the ground, choking and wheezing. There was pain but no blood, and he could not scream. He clutched his neck, trying to demand to know what his attacker just did. Slick removed the knife, but the effect staid in place.

"Don't worry, it will wear off," he exited via shadow once again. "Probably." The last he heard as he sauntered away was Die ramming fruitlessly into the door. He continued his trek, vowing not to waste so much time on each room.  
"Note to self: ask Itchy if he's itching to do something next time I see him. Yeah, that's good."

Die stood in front of the door, glowering. He tried to remember what Matchsticks had taught him about breaking down doors. _kick on the lock? no, near the lock._ With a shrug, and nothing to lose, he gave it a shot. It was a damn good kick, and had the door simply been stuck, rather than blocked, it would have done the trick. But that was not the case, and to add insult to injury, the force he put into the kick made him stumble backwards. He landed hard on an end table and was out of commission for a few minutes. He came to shortly thereafter with an ache in his shoulder where he had repeatedly banged on the door before his rude awakening. Once the pain subsided, he tried to recall everything that had happened. He remembered getting a visitor... Die gazed with wonder at the spot on the wall into which Spades Slick had vanished. Spades Slick, who curiously, had only one eye. And who was wearing a suit made of spirals. And who had a kite for a tail. And who spoke with the voice of an agitated mallard. How very peculiar.

_I am tripping balls,_ Die admonished himself, with somewhat of an amused tone. 

_Should I warn Crowbar about Slick?_ He removed the cellphone from his coat pocket, albeit reluctantly. Such examples of modern technology rather repulsed him, but it did come in handy in emergencies. He pressed in Crowbar's number, only to have him not answer. Die swore inwardly and rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling more justified in his stance as he was redirected to a voice mail system.

"Answer your bloody phone!" Die wanted to say. But his vocal chords didn't seem to want to cooperate. Frustrated, he threw the phone against the wall, where it shattered into an irreparable mess.

_Fuck._

_Maybe it's for the better that I stay trapped in this room. Oh man, Crowbar's gonna be so mad..._

Around the same time, Boxcars was helping Deuce shove the pool equipment into a suitcase for the sake of easier transportation. Helping, in this case, meant standing by and not complaining. Deuce was quite insistent that every single thing needed to be in the exact right spot.

"How come?" Boxcars argued at first. "Aren't we just gonna take 'em out again?"  
"Yes, but this way we'll know precisely where everything is, because where each thing is, is a place which makes sense, you see. And then, when we want something, we won't have to search for it, or even deliberate about where it could be, because the answer will be plain as day!"  
"Okay," Boxcars began slowly. "But why can't we just dump alla this stuff out at once whenever we get to-" he paused mid-sentence as he realized just how little he was comprehending Deuce's scheme. "To wherever we're going?"  
Deuce gawked at him like he had just suggested something completely obscene, which, to Deuce, it was.  
"You don't get it, do you?"  
Boxcars shrugged sheepishly. "Well, why do you care so much about this sort of thing? Everything has to be tidy and neat and perfect!" he asked, becoming somewhat aggressive. "What kinda demolitions man is such a perfectionist?" Deuce slowly and deliberately turned to face his impatient companion. The habitual blissful look about Deuce's face had vanished, replaced by one far more grave.  
"The kind of demolitions man who wants to make sure he does everything exactly right, so he doesn't accidentally hurt or kill someone he cares about."

Boxcars stared at his feet.

Deuce turned back to his work with a happy hum. "Oh, and the kind of demolitions man who finds absolute order the most glorious mark for pure chaos."  
"Now that's what I like to hear!" Boxcars exclaimed jovially. They didn't speak much after that, simply enjoying one another's company. Boxcars strolled up and down the hallway, keeping an eye out, and Deuce softly sang to himself. When he was satisfied with his job, he called Boxcars over.  
"You ready to go?"  
"Just one more thing," Deuce held up a finger and went back into the billiards room. Boxcars followed, feeling lost.  
"Didn't we do everything in here already?"  
"Technically, yes," Deuce answered, rubbing his chin. "But it never hurts to check your work. I want to make sure I didn't forget anything."  
"Like me? Hehehe!"

Boxcars and Deuce both bristled at the voice behind them. It was reminiscent of Slick's, but less angry. They turned to see Clover sitting on a shelf, just out of reach, playing with some mystery object.  
"Oh, it's just Clover," Deuce breathed a sigh of relief. "Hi!"  
"Yep, just little ol' Clover!" he smiled. "And his little ol' coin!"  
The two Dersites sent sideways glances to one another, a mutual shot of terror coursing through them.  
"W-what are you thinking-" Deuce began, eyes darting back and forth, looking for an out. Boxcars readied his TV antenna.  
"Ah ah ah!" Clover scolded Boxcars and held up the mystery object: Deuce's detonator. Boxcars gripped the antenna tighter, but staid his ground. Clover had been an invaluable source of insider information many times, and they were under specific orders not to kill him. Not like they could, anyway. Still, the idea of giving the little shit a good drubbing was tempting.  
"How did you get that?" Deuce snapped, trying and once again failing to whisper.  
"I pickpocketed you while you were engrossed in your things and Boxcars had his back turned," Clover shrugged as though they were discussing something completely mundane, which, to Clover, it was.

"Why don't we play a game?" he asked brightly. The two relaxed a little, but Boxcars was still aggravated.  
"You want a game? How about, guess what I can throw the farthest down the hall: a bowling bowl, a golf ball, or Clover."  
"No, I mean like a riddle game!"  
"That was a riddle."  
"Come on, No one in the Felt ever wants to play with me!" Clover pouted. Deuce sighed heavily and tried to coax Clover down from the shelf, to no avail.  
"What's your game?" he relented at last. Clover clapped his hands and cheered.  
"Answer a time riddle correctly and I will return your detonator! Answer incorrectly and I will flip my coin! Those are the rules! Sounds fair, right? Heheheh!"  
Deuce swallowed nervously. The last thing they needed was an encounter with Quarters on a normal day, and if he was interrupted on his day off, well, that was another story entirely.  
"Tell me your riddle," Deuce responded bravely. Clover grinned and danced a little from his perch, trying to think up something decent.  
"What has many legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and no legs in the evening?"  
Deuce looked down, pondering.  
"Tick tock!"  
"Yer about to have no legs if you don't-"  
"A low-blooded troll!" Deuce piped up.  
"Very good! Now, question two-"  
"Hold on," Boxcars growled. "You said we had to answer one riddle."  
"Sure," Clover nodded. "One riddle each."  
"Why, you smart little-" Boxcars brandished his antenna. Clover wiggled the detonator tauntingly in their faces. Boxcars fumed but backed off. Deuce looked up at Clover with pleading eyes.  
"Clover, what if I promised to play any game you want some time later? I'm free next week. We can play all day if you like."  
Clover stopped dancing and looked down at Deuce, who was smiling pleasantly up at him. Clover, against his better judgment, returned the smile. It was genuine, not his usual impish grin.  
"You... you would do that?"  
"Just give me the detonator now," Deuce answered calmly. "And put that coin away."  
Clover nodded eagerly and tossed the key item down to Deuce.  
"Thanks!" he called up to the small felt. "You just let me know when you want to hang out!" He looked at the item in his hand. It was a cellphone.  
"Clover, what the hell!" Deuce yelled. "Where's the detonator?"  
"That's not it?" Clover feigned innocence.  
"Then where-" Deuce was struck with an idea, but no. It was just too stupid. but he had to see. He reached into his back pocket where he had been keeping the detonator. It had been there the whole time.  
"You mean you never even-" Deuce grabbed his face in annoyance. "Rrrrggh!"  
"Oops! Hehe!" Clover giggled.

He gasped as the business end of a battleaxe came hurtling towards him. It sailed swiftly through the air, hitting its mark precisely.

Clover yelped and braced himself for impact. When he felt nothing, he broke into a cold sweat. Was he already dead? No... no the battleaxe had missed him, but either side was lodged in the wall, pinning him.  
"You missed!" he teased.  
"Oops, hehe!" Boxcars grinned maliciously.  
"I think we're done here!" Deuce said with a tip of his hat.  
"We still on for next week?" Clover inquired hopefully.  
"Sure thing, kid!"

Boxcars and Deuce headed out, realizing there wasn't enough time left for double checking. They let Clover figure out how to extricate himself from his current predicament. He was smart, he could handle it.  
"Did you mean what you said?" Boxcars later asked. "About hanging out with him later?"  
"Sure," Deuce answered honestly. "Poor kid just needs a friend." Boxcars patted him on the back.  
"Well, yer just the guy for the job."

Also around the same time, Droog lit the last cigarette from his pack. Normally, he detested smoking indoors. He normally detested grandiose furniture and garish decorations as well, so they kind of canceled each other out. While he wasn't particularly keen on having been given such a cushy job, he was grateful that it had given him a chance to think.

He thought of a good number of things, such as the fact that Slick had broken his promise to do the shopping, and now they were out of both milk and eggs. He remembered his least favorite songs, which his mind had generously put on repeat. He contemplated whether or not swine beasts possessed limbs enabling flight.

He most certainly did not put any investment into the thought that he had let his eyes linger for a few seconds on Slick's backside as he walked away, because that absolutely did not happen, so there was no point in thinking about it.

Okay, maybe it had happened. But there was an explanation! He simply had gotten the stares, and Slick's ass was occupying the same space Droog was staring into. That's all there was to it.

And maybe he bit his lip a little. So what? Lip biting didn't have to be a federal fucking issue. Droog didn't think so, anyway.

Really, the whole thing was unremarkable. End of discussion.


	8. Indomitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clover accidentally-on-purpose causes Slick’s death. Droog loses it and tries to kill Deuce. Slick meets Death.

"Hmm. I approve of the composition, but I'm not sold on the premise," Droog stood back to inspect the artistic handiwork the Crew had designed. Boxcars, Deuce, and Slick waited with anticipation as the resident Crew member with the ultimate sense of style issued judgment.

Earlier on, Deuce and Boxcars had returned to the foyer, carrying the pool supplies. A short time later, Slick rejoined them as well, satisfied that he had thoroughly scoured the entirety of the manor. News of the presence of Snowman, Die, and Clover was covered, and it was confirmed that none of them would be any trouble. Deuce insisted on waiting for Slick, before putting forth his proposal: Put the pool implements where they would immediately be seen by the Felt, just to drive the point further home. They couldn't just stop there, though. Since there was just enough time, they decided to get creative. Thanks to a tool box Deuce had conveniently brought along (which he always brought because, hey, who knows), they were able to drill holes in the pool balls. They drilled corresponding holes into the floor, then jammed cue sticks into both holes. (There weren't enough sticks, so a few of them had to be sawed in half.)

Droog tapped his chin. "These are supposed to represent their heads on pikes, correct?"  
"Yeah, only a lot more attractive," Boxcars chuckled at his joke.  
"I don't know, the metaphor seems a bit heavy-handed to me," Droog frowned. Slick patted him on the arm.  
"Hey, this is the Felt we're talkin' about. It'll be a miracle if even half of 'em get what we're going for here."  
Droog shrugged and nodded in concession.

After that, they all took turns with the chalk and etched malicious messages on the walls. Each one was easily identifiable. Boxcars', written in elegant cursive, was rife with both purple prose and lewd references. Droog's flawless penmanship was juxtaposed by his straightforward, yet gruesome death threats. Backwards letters and frowny faces signified the writing of Clubs Deuce. And most of Slick's was scribbled out as he struggled with composing good puns. Also, somewhere along the line he got tired of using the chalk and resorted to using his knife to carve in the messages.

"We should start heading out," Slick reminded them, while looking at his watch. It didn't function as expected, and hadn't for a long time. Instead, it featured only a candid shot of Cans, cracking his knuckles. "The Felt won't be back for a while, but it wouldn't hurt to get a head start," The others collected themselves and their belongings.  
"Wait a minute!" Deuce shouted in a panic, patting himself down. "I can't find the detonator!"  
The other three waited as he removed his coat and turned all the pockets inside out. "How on Derse? I never even took it out-"

"Look what I've got!" came a sing-song voice. They all looked in its direction to find Clover, lounging atop a large statue, twirling the detonator. "You really need to keep a closer eye on your things, Deuce!"

"Hey! Give that back!" Deuce shouted indignantly. He dashed over to the statue, and Clover jumped away, landing on a high backed arm chair, giggling. As he lunged off the statue, it began to topple. Deuce was unawares, focused on the trouble-making Felt.  
"Catch me if you can!" Clover started to giggle, but stopped abruptly and gasped as the statue gave in to gravity's pull. Deuce gazed upward with fright to see it plummeting towards him- the next thing he knew he was being flung across the room.

In the brief span of time it took to pick himself up, Deuce found that everything had changed. He turned his attention to the fallen statue, to find... _Oh, no..._

"I... I got one!" Clover gasped, dancing triumphantly. "I actually got a member of the Midnight Crew! And not just anyone, but Spades Slick!" He skittered away, managing to dodge every one of Droog's bullets. "Wait until Crowbar hears about this!"

"Droog, get over here!" Boxcars commanded fiercely. Slick, being nearby, had shoved Deuce out of the way, only to get pinned himself. Boxcars hoisted the statue off and laid it aside. He was unable to disguise his reaction to the sight before him. Slick's arm was crushed beyond hope, and bloody wounds covered his matching leg, side, and back where sharp points on the statue had landed. "Droog!"

Scarcely able to hear over the sound of gunfire and blood rushing in his ears, it took Droog a moment to realize his attention was required. He quickly holstered the gun and ran to Slick's side. He was still conscious.

"What do we do?"  
"Don't touch him," Droog warned. "Slick, can you use your shadow magic to heal yourself?" With some difficulty, Slick turned himself over. He put up his hand and tried to summon the violet flames. They sputtered out.  
"Not with this hand. And I don't have the energy to flip my sprite."  
Droog took a deep breath. "I've got it." He got out his cellphone and punched in Stitch's number.  
"What."  
"It's Droog. I need your help."  
"Again? What's in it for me?"  
"How about I don't slit your throat the next time I see you?" Droog hissed, finding it difficult to keep his cool.  
"Alright, alright. What now?"  
"I'm going to put Deuce on the line, and you're going to tell him how to repair an effigy."  
"Ran into some trouble, eh?"  
"Here's Deuce," Droog said gruffly, not acknowledging Stitch's remark. He handed the phone over, along with one of Slick's backup hats. Deuce didn't need to be told twice what to do, and ran off to Stitch's workroom.  
"Boxcars, can you look out the window? Just make sure no one's coming," Droog asked. Once he was in position, Droog felt confident he could return his attention to Slick.

"Fuck."  
"It's going to be alright, Slick," Droog took the remaining good hand in his.  
"Fucking hurts like hell," Slick groaned, seeming more annoyed than scared. Droog found a flask of whiskey in Slick's coat and helped him drink. "Thanks" he winced, but stuck with it as the wounds knitted themselves back together.  
"It's going to be alright."

Deuce frowned at Slick's effigy. He had successfully fixed the majority of tears, but there was still the problem of the arm. Although most of the effigy was white, the arm had turned black. When he mentioned this to Stitch, Stitch responded that there was only one thing to do at that point.

Searing pain shot through Slick's ruined arm. He gripped Droog's hand nearly hard enough to break his fingers as an excruciating howl escaped his throat. A wide, red line was developing across his arm, quickly growing and deepening. His arm was being amputated. Slick howled again, and Droog shoved a cuestick in his mouth to silence him. Slick bit it clean in half. Droog replaced it with Slick's horse hitcher. Blood pooled around him after the deed was done. He let the horse hitcher fall from his mouth, his eye wide, his breathing raspy, his carapace dull. His grip weakened.

"You can stab me now," Droog said quietly.  
"Wha-" Slick's voice was soft.  
"If I hadn't convinced you to come..." Droog trailed off.  
"Not gunna stab ya," Slick slurred. Maybe it was the pain, or the blood loss, or the drink, but he was feeling rather light-headed. "Shell's nice 'n shiny. Can't mess it up."  
Droog furrowed his eyebrows with concern as Slick rambled. Slick slowly reached his hand towards Droog's face.  
"I never told ya, but you're the most handsome guy I know."  
"Slick, don't talk."  
"Ya know, you could have your pick of any guy you wanted. Wish I coulda been so lucky."  
Droog thought for a minute.  
"What do you-"

Slick was unresponsive.

Deuce violently shook the blackened effigy. "No! I almost had it! I was so close!" He pounded on it with his fists, sobbing with each punch. "Turn white again, dammit!" The effigy just hung there, mockingly. The phone lay on the ground, forgotten. Deuce backed away and sat on the floor, face in hands. What could he do? His head was swimming.  
"Deuce? You still there?" Stitch yelled from the other line. Deuce stared blankly at the phone, then hung up. He got to his feet and left the room, moving on auto-pilot.

Part of him wanted to tell himself that the effigy didn't mean anything, but he knew deep down, that wasn't true. When he came to the foyer, his dread became reality. Droog was cradling Slick's body, Boxcars standing by, head bowed.

"Oh Godhead, no," Deuce blurted out. Preparing himself for the sight had not helped. Droog's head snapped up at the sound. He was not crying, nor did he appear to be showing any sort of emotion. His eyes were blank, as though the very spirit had been sucked from them.

"You were supposed to fix him," he said calmly, looking straight at Deuce.  
"I tried! I tried!" Deuce wailed. Droog got to his feet and pulled out his cuestick.  
"You couldn't do it," he continued, slowly walking towards the smaller Dersite, who started inching away.  
"Droog, you're not yourself-"  
"You failed. Failure must be dealt with," He swung the cuestick back, but was held back by Boxcars, who had him in a sleeper hold. Once Droog was out, he let him drop to the floor.  
"Is Droog-?"  
"He's just unconscious," Boxcars explained. He picked up Slick's corpse and slung it over his shoulder. "Let's get out of here." He headed for the door. Deuce looked over at Droog's limp form.  
"But what about D-"  
"He's gone," Boxcars interrupted tersely.  
"But-"  
"He's gone!" Boxcars repeated, forcefully, his voice strangled. Deuce gave up, and followed Boxcars out, picking up the remnants of Slick's arm.

Spades Slick stood in front of a door.

He looked all around him. There was nothing but the door. So he opened it. On the other side stood a tall, slender figure, clad in a black robe, wielding a scythe. He stared at it, not quite knowing what to say or how to approach. The figure turned and looked back, then slowly pointed a finger towards him.

"What are you doing here?" Death asked inquisitively, his voice rattly. Slick looked from side to side.  
"Is this a trick question?" he said, straight-faced. "I'm dead, aren't I?"  
"Naturally," Death sauntered over. "But why so soon? You, of all people, have no business being here yet."  
"Me? What's so special about me?"  
"Shadow magic!" Death answered passionately.  
"So I can use shadow magic. What's that got to do with anything?" Death ushered Slick over to a table and poured him some tea.  
"Sit here and relax, and I'll explain."  
Slick obeyed, having no other options.  
"The possibilities of shadow magic are nigh limitless!" Death waved his hands in an exaggerated manner. "Surely, you have witnessed some of its splendor."  
Slick stirred his tea. "Mostly I just use it to change the channel when I can't find the remote."  
Death dropped his arms down in frustration and gave up the theatrics. "Look, you know it can be used to heal, right?"  
"'Course. That's part of how my crew has managed to get by for so long. But this last time... I was too weak."  
"Are you weak now?"  
"No, but I'm dead," Slick repeated. "Haven't I blown my chance?"  
Death shrugged. Slick raised his hand. Dare he hope? Violet flames erupted forth, and an ecstatic smile spread across his face. The flames and smile both quickly dissolved as it dawned on him.

"I have no fucking clue what I'm doing" he slumped in his seat. Death sighed.  
"This goes against everything I stand for, but I'll help you out," He raised his own skeletal hand and violet flames engulfed it. "But this is the only time." He walked over to the doorway, closed it, then ran his hand all around the edge, turning it purple. "Besides, I know you can be something of a handful. Why don't you come back here when you're older and more mature?" He opened the door and gestured the way out.

"Can you give me back my arm and eye while you're at it?"  
"Don't push it. But remember, with shadow magic, you can do anything you want! Well, within reason. You can't cause logical paradoxes, and if someone more skilled in shadow magic wants something contradictory to you, their will trumps yours, and, of course, the more powerful the spell, the more mana it uses, but other than that, anything goes."

Slick nodded graciously to Death and stepped onto the threshold. He was jerked forward by an invisible hand, pulling him faster and faster, until he blacked out. He slowly opened his eye and it took a second to adjust. The ground was bouncing. He was being moved.  
"Ughhh, wha's goin' on?"  
Boxcars and Deuce stopped dead in their tracks.  
"S-Slick?" Deuce cautiously looked up.  
"Unh, wh-where's-" Slick began groggily, but quickly became fully aware of his surroundings. "Where's Droog?" he demanded. Deuce and Boxcars gaped.  
"He's still in the manor," Boxcars stammered.  
"What!?" Slick started wriggling and thrashing in an attempt to get free. "You left him alone in there?" He squirmed out of Boxcars' grasp and landed less than gracefully on the ground, then bolted back towards the front door of the Felt Mansion. Fortunately, in the time it had taken him to cross to the other side and back, Boxcars and Deuce had not yet made it to the getaway van. They trailed off after their newly revived leader.  
"Amazing!"  
"I'll say!"

Droog awoke feeling numb. There was blood everywhere, including on his suit. He made a mental note to get it dry cleaned at that place on 3rd. They didn't ask questions. Now, what was he doing in this horrible place again? Something about a heist. He remembered arguing with Slick and being really bored. Then... oh yeah. Slick was gone. He wasn't sure what to think or how to feel, so he concentrated on the events. But what had happened after that? The rest of it was kind of a fog. For now, he had to get out. All that green was starting to make him sick to look at. He opened the door and walked out for some fresh air. At first, he didn't notice the figure hurtling towards him.

"Droog!" Slick called out, seeing his moirail exit the manor. Droog looked up with confusion, slack-jawed.  
"Slick, you're ali- OOF!" Slick tackled Droog, knocking the wind out of him. He whipped out a knife and started slashing at Droog's face and chest, just close enough to graze. A strange show of affection. Knowing that movement could result in getting himself, or worse, his suit, cut, Droog opted to lie still. Better to let Slick get this out of his system.  
"Don't do that to me! I was scared something had happened to you!" Slick scolded. Droog sat up suddenly, throwing Slick off him.  
"I scared you?" he said incredulously. "I just watched you die, you son of a bitch!" He grabbed Slick and pulled him into a tight embrace.

By their side stood Boxcars and Deuce, who had caught up. Boxcars, beaming, leaned down and elbowed Deuce.  
"Yeah, yeah, I see," Deuce smiled back. He tentatively approached the two of them. "Are you alright? Both of you?"  
Slick nodded and Droog cocked his head to the side. _Why wouldn't he-_ His eyes went wide as the recollection set in.

"Oh, fuck," he muttered, hand covering his mouth. "Fuck. Clubs, I know I don't deserve your forgiveness for what-"  
"I forgive you."  
"What?"  
"I said I forgive you," Deuce insisted. Droog looked at him like he was crazy.  
"How can you brush this off like it's nothing?"  
"That's just it. It's not nothing. I know what Slick means to you," Deuce shrugged. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad Boxcars stopped you. I'm just saying: I don't blame you."  
Droog leaned forward and patted Deuce on the shoulder.

Their little talk gave Slick the opportunity to reflect. He stared at the spot where his arm was supposed to be, and started giggling. Droog looked over nervously.  
"Somebody stop him before he starts making arm-based puns" Boxcars suggested. Droog glared at him.  
"Show a little sympathy!"  
"Hey look, I'm unarmed!" Slick joked.  
"Too late," Droog and Boxcars said in unison, flinching. Slick went on.  
"Maybe I shoulda brought a suit of armor! Or an army!" Droog tried to shoosh him. "Y'know. I was thinkin' I needed to lose weight." Droog tried to pap him. "Hey, what is the sound of one hand clapping?" Slick laughed hysterically, waving his arm in half a clapping motion. Droog slapped him hard across the face.

Slick looked up sheepishly. "Sorry you had to see that." Droog helped him to his feet and they headed towards the van. Boxcars drove, Deuce rode up front, Slick and Droog sat in the back. As they set off, Droog twiddled his thumbs.  
"Something on your mind?"  
"You mean, aside from the obvious?"  
"I met Death and he sent me back 'cause I'm immature or something."  
...  
"Sure, that makes sense."  
"Okay, so what else?"  
"Do you remember what you said, just before, well... do you remember the last thing you said?" Droog, staring down, finally settled on that wording.  
"Nah, I was feeling pretty out of it at that point," Slick said. "Why? Did I say something stupid?"  
"No. You were just sort of rambling and I couldn't understand you," Droog lied. Well, it wasn't completely a lie. He abandoned the subject after that.

"Right this way, gentlemen!" Clover ushered the rest of the Felt into their manor later on. "Come see what I bagged!" Crowbar sneered at the profane writings on the walls.  
"Is this some sort of joke?" he asked Clover crossly.  
"What? no! See, I killed Spades-" he pointed to the scene of the crime, but his finger went flaccid. "Where did- oh, of course!" he laughed confidently. "They must have taken his body!"  
Crowbar summoned Trace and Fin. "See if he's telling the truth." With their time powers, they determined that while Slick had been there recently, his trail did not end. Trace shook his head. Crowbar glared with disappointment at Clover, who cowered.  
"You pulled me away from my night off for this?" he shook his head. "Just get out of my sight."  
Clover dashed away. _I don't understand..._

Crowbar rubbed between his eyes. "We need to get this mess cleaned up." When no one moved, he snapped. "Now!" Everyone scrambled to find something to do. Itchy retrieved some cleaning products, then gave them to Quarters who began scrubbing the walls. Fin and Trace collected the broken pool equipment. Biscuits picked up a remote with a shiny red button.

"Hey. What's this button do."  
"Biscuits, no!" Crowbar sprinted over to stop him.

_Boom._


	9. Armchair Psychiatry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Felt and Crew stop fighting for a while. Slick and Droog have a feelings jam.

Over the course of the following few weeks, the Midnight Crew wisely chose to lie low. This was done primarily for Slick's benefit, as he was adjusting to life with not only a missing eye, but a missing arm to boot. After the excitement (and I use that term quite loosely) of the last heist, the rest of the Crew felt they'd had enough antics to last them a while, and the break was welcomed. Speaking of felt, by the grace of whatever generous providential icon watched over the Midnight City, the crew's rival gang evidently had the same idea. That, or they were just taking their sweet time preparing an adequate retaliation.

Droog, Boxcars, and Deuce could only pray that the latter was not the case. None of them had any particular talent for making plans, at least in regards to strifing. Droog was slow and methodical, which was certainly useful in certain circumstances, but he wasn't incredibly efficient under high pressure, where his temper often got the better of him. Boxcars' idea of a plan was to hit anything that moved. Effective, but not always an option, especially when enemies swarmed. And, as Boxcars had a tendency to attract that replicating idiot Eggs, swarming was always a risk. As for Deuce? Let's just say his skill regarding explosives was inversely proportionate to his skills in most other violent fields.

Slick, on the other hand, could conjure up a plot to attack the Felt or anyone else he thought deserved it with ease. The brilliance of some of his ideas could be likened to sheer poetry. Although, like any other written work, they occasionally needed corrections and input from the others, largely due to his proclivity towards over complicating things. In addition, he could scrape together a decent plan at the last minute, if such became necessary, and alter them when they didn't go as intended. This was all much easier when he was focused, though, so for the time, he was out of commission.

For weeks after the incident, the crew watched with worry as their leader shuffled through the hideout in something of a stupor. At least he was diligent about not letting his lack of upper limb get the better of him. He was forced to relearn a number of different everyday tasks, but he stubbornly stuck with each and every one until they were second nature. It wasn't long before he had most activities down pat- except for cooking, but he had never been one for cooking anyhow- and they incorrectly assumed life could resume as normal. But there were still a few things which needed to be fixed, and the other three could only do so much to help.

If anything, life went downhill after Slick regained control over basic abilities, since he no longer had those matters serving as distractions. After that, his inactivity and mellow behavior went from an assumed phase to downright disquieting.

When Boxcars joked that he would eat Clover the next time he saw him, Slick absentmindedly gave the okay, as though his large companion had stated that he would do something as simple as getting the car washed.

When Deuce showed Slick the design he invented for uniforms they could wear, Slick told him it was nice.

And when Droog called Deuce's designs eyesores, initiating a minor strife between the two, Slick did not laugh as they went for each others' throats. He just told them to knock it off.

One day, Slick emerged from his room around midnight. This was not unusual. What was unusual, was that he was fully dressed when he did so, and could be heard milling around in there, rifling through his belongings, since dusk. He said nothing upon exiting, but merely occupied an empty spot on the sofa. The others periodically attempted to engage him in conversation, but as it quickly became clear he was more interested in contemplating his navel- or whatever the carapacian equivalent is- they left him to his musings.

First, Deuce came in with the post.  
"It's just a bunch of junk mail. Oh, and here's a note from Snowman," he peered at the fancy script, struggling a bit to read the words. "She says thank you for the wilted flowers, but she doesn't need a visual metaphor for your genitalia," He looked up at Slick for a response, then quickly back down at the note, wanting to verify that he read it correctly. Slick may have snarled a bit at Snowman's jab, but if he did, his expression went right back to inscrutable a moment later.  
"I'll just throw these in the trash, then," Deuce took his leave, throwing furtive glances in Slick's direction as he did, brows knit together.

Second, Boxcars came in with a box of a dozen doughnuts.  
"Well, nine of 'em now, actually," he shoved the box into Slick's unwilling grasp. "I took a cherry-filled and a chocolate-filled and Deuce took one with sprinkles," Slick looked up at him with curiosity, and Boxcars placed a hand behind his head nervously. "Take whatever you like. I know they're your favorite brand. Just don't tell Droog." Slick bowed his head once more, and he may have been smiling, but it was difficult to tell from that angle. At least he hadn't thrown the box on the floor in a childish rage, which Boxcars took as a thank you. Still, the box remained unopened on Slick's lap. Boxcars sighed. "Come on. You haven't eaten all day. Ya gotta have something." Partially out of legitimate hunger, and partially so that he could be left alone again, Slick relented and pulled out one with chocolate icing. Boxcars nodded his approval and exited.

Droog was the last one to pass by. He did not endeavor to pry a reaction out of the morose Dersite, not out of a lack of concern, but from the recognition that his moirail would talk when he was good and ready. He did not anticipate that happening soon, so he just let Slick know his intentions.

"I've a few errands to run," he announced on his way out. "I should be back later tonight. Be sure to hang up your clean clothes so they don't get wrinkled like last time," He hesitated, wondering if that sounded too accusing or passive-aggressive. Slick grunted in response, seeming to take no offense, and so Droog headed out.

As promised, Droog returned to the hideout around nightfall, fingers twitching, mumbling to himself about all the morons he had encountered that day. His quiet rantings ceased when he saw Slick still positioned on the sofa, the contents of the box of baked goods having dwindled down to three.

"Have you even moved from that spot?" Droog snapped. Slick shyly held up a creme-filled olive branch, which Droog sneered at. He shook his head in aggravation before eying Slick again. "You had _one_ chore. One!" Clearly not interested, Slick crossed his arms and let his gaze fall away. Droog stomped off, calling for Boxcars.

"Did you know that your boss has done nothing but sit there collecting dust all day?" Droog found his target and whispered sharply, although his volume was not sufficient in preventing Slick from overhearing.  
"Hey, he's yer boss, too," Boxcars held up his hands in a classic "back off" gesture. "Lay off him, alright? He's had a rough time."  
"He's had-? Do you know what kind of day I've been through? And meanwhile, he's been doing fuckall-" he clammed up shortly after seeing the look he was being given. Boxcars did not want to hear about it. Droog wandered off to lecture Slick some more.

He wasn't particularly surprised to see that Slick had decided to go ahead and eat the rejected doughnut. That didn't mean he had to be happy about it. He placed a hand on his forehead and dragged it down his face, counting in his head.

"Please tell me you've eaten something other than half a dozen of those... those _things_ today." Slick shrugged ever-so slightly. Swiftly and unexpectedly, Droog wrestled the box from his friend.

"Hey," Slick protested, finally uttering his first word of the day. Droog had other concerns.  
"These are going straight in the garbage," He left for the kitchen, and returned sans box. For a moment he leaned against the doorway, observing as Slick finished consuming the last doughnut he had taken out... taking reasonable bites like a person with a modicum of civility, instead of shoving the entire thing in his mouth.

Something was very wrong.

Getting Slick to open up wasn't a simple matter, and even for the uninitiated it took some careful planning. Fortunately, careful is Droog's favorite type of planning. First, he had to guarantee that they were on the same side, and that meant swallowing his pride and apologizing for any wrongdoing. Even if he was certain he was in the right.

"I'm sorry I jumped down your throat," Droog said less than sincerely, taking a spot on the other end of the sofa. "I've been somewhat on edge since I ran out of cigarettes, and you would not believe the people I ran into," he began, stressing his words. "And I thought, hey, it would be nice to come home and see things had returned to normalcy, so-"

"I'll try to regrow my arm tomorrow," Slick interrupted bitterly. Droog shut his mouth. A moment of silence later, and he apologized legitimately.  
"I've been selfish," his words were directed more to himself. "You just take however long you need, alright?" He waited a bit before asking, "How are you holding up?", then quickly added, "Dumb question, I know."  
"Bluh," was Slick's only response. He gripped his stomach, which felt a bit queasy.  
"Is that from the doughnuts or something else?" Droog snarked, but Slick didn't even glare at him. Droog leaned forward onto his hands and thought for a bit, then walked over to the radio to turn it on. Specifically, to Slick's least favorite station, some classical thing heavy on the violins. Sure enough, Slick got up and turned it off.

Droog turned it back on.

Slick turned it back off.

Before Slick could move, Droog quickly turned it on. Slick narrowed his eyes and double-pressed the power button. Droog immediately pressed it, unwittingly turning it off. Slick grinned.

"Ha, I outwitted the smart one," he gloated. The grin was returned.  
"I knew you were in there somewhere." The first grin faded.  
"Yeah, yeah, whatever."  
"Don't fret; we'll get you out of this gloom," Droog assured Slick, placing a hand on his shoulder. "In the meanwhile, I'm going to see if there's anything edible in the refrigerator. Let me know if you want anything," Droog left in search of nutrients, but before he could get started on preparing any refreshments, Slick said something that stopped him dead in his tracks.

"What should I do with my piano"

Droog put everything away- quickly, but not so quick as to hint that he was stressed, as that could have an adverse effect on Slick's own emotional state- and sat down again. Slick's tone of voice had indicated that he knew he wouldn't like any conceivable option.

"I mean, I can't even play-" he couldn't finish the sentence. "There's no point to having it around. Seeing it depresses the hell outa me but at the same time..." he trailed off and shook his head.  
"'At the same time' what?" Droog inquired. Slick shook his head harder.  
"You'll think it's dumb."

Yet again, Droog set out for the kitchen, only to return soon after. This time, he was holding a bottle of nice, expensive wine and two wine glasses. Slick stared in bemusement as Droog poured two glasses, then gawked at him when one glass was handed over.  
"You said this was for a special occasion," Slick commented quietly. The glass did not retreat, so Slick took it. Wine wasn't his poison of choice, but even he had enough common sense and tact to know that when Diamonds Droog offered you wine, you were grateful.  
"It simply occurred to me," he began, inventing an excuse on the spot. "We never really celebrated your return from death. I'd say that's worth cracking this open."

Truthfully, wine had a tendency to make Droog quiet. And right at that moment, Slick needed to talk and Droog needed to listen. With any luck, it wouldn't be long before-

"Tha' stupid thing mean' more t' me than you could know" Slick grumbled, swinging his glass around emphatically. "I 'on't wanna give it t' some asshole who's not gonna geddit. Geddit?"

"I'm... afraid not. Please, elaborate."

Slick chuckled at Droog's choice of phrasing. "Tha's the kinda shit I'm talkin' 'bout. _Ee-laah-bor-ayt._. Whodafuck says that when they're just chattin'? No 'ne. 'Cept you 'cause you wanna sound fancy. Bu' you're not tryin'a sound fancy right now. I c'n tell. You've jus' been talkin' like 'at so long it comes natur'ly. But it started 'cause that was how ya needed ta be. Was how other people needed y' ta be."

Droog sat down his glass and gave his full attention. Slick was heading somewhere.

"An' me. First I gotta do ev'rything the Black Queen tells me. Then the trolls come along, an' I gotta be a rebel. Th' desert. I hafta suffer. Be strong. Now there's this place. Can't rest jus' yet. I'm fuckin' Spades Slick, leader of the Midnight Crew. Got a reputation t' uphold."

Anytime now, he'd get around to the point.

"Playin' piano... tha's pre'y much the only time I feel like I'm being honest about who I am," Slick laughed harshly. "An' I could get away with it 'cause most folk are too dumb to unnerstand music." There was a lull in the conversation and Droog meditated on the words. It was easy to forget sometimes, that amidst the perpetual fury, tendencies towards bloodlust, and thirst for power and respect, Slick was still capable of exhibiting signs of sentimentality. Aware that he was grasping at straws, Droog made an attempt at assuaging his depressed partner.

"You can still write music, can't you? And sing- well, relatively speaking." Slick tried to punch him in the arm.  
"Ow! Right in the sofa!"  
Slick giggled and lied his head on Droog's shoulder.

"No' just about playin' it. S'about playin' it with alla you guys. You... You're good guys, ya know? You get frustrated with me, and you get mad at me, but you don' judge me," Slick paused, trying to figure out how to express his thoughts. No such luck. "I 'unno, maybe 's one of those connection thingies. Like I was saying, s'dumb."

"Not at all," Droog affirmed gently.  
"Mmm," Slick nuzzled his head against Droog's chest.  
"Slick, are you asleep already?"  
"adshafajkd"  
"Yeah, no, we're not doing this," Droog shoved Slick into an upright position. "We have to figure out what to do with your piano."  
"Don' wanna," Slick slouched and crossed his arms.  
"Do you want me to decide for you?"  
"Uh huh"  
"Really?"  
Without another word, Slick looked away and rapidly nodded his head. It was time to change the subject.

"So... turns out we both broke a promise to one another," Droog started the conversation, his tone light, both to show that he bore no ill will towards Slick for his transgressions, and in the hopes that he would be afforded the same courtesy.  
"Whassat?"  
"For one, you said you were gonna do the grocery shopping."  
"Huh? When?"  
"After we had all that horrible pizza."  
"Fuggoff, that was delicio-" he smacked himself in the face. "Aw shit, I totally forgot"  
"It's alright," Droog shrugged. "Ever since Boxcars has taken such an interest in cooking, he's been picking up the slack."  
"Whadabout you, then?"  
Droog drummed his fingers together.

_Ooh, a conversation to which you're too humiliated to actually contribute! Sheer genius!_  
"Shut up, brain!"  
Slick cocked his head to the side.  
"Uh, I mean-"  
"Seal your vocalizer, organ of gray matter!" Slick gave a bad impression. "Tha's what you mean, right? No wait, I got it. Cease your metaphor'cal mouth emissions, thought spawner!"  
"That's not how I talk," Droog retorted huffily.  
"I can keep this up all night."  
"Whatever."  
"No, no, no, you're supposed to say 'tha's what she said'."  
"That wouldn't even make sense," Droog rubbed between his eyebrows. He got his wish for talkative-drunk Slick, but then had to deal with moody-drunk Slick and silly-drunk Slick. It was hard to tell which was worse.

"Oh my Godhead, I'm so sorry!" Slick yelped suddenly, while placing his hand on Droog's chest. Ah, and there was friendly-drunk Slick. "I got you off track, didn't I?" Droog pushed him away, but Slick flopped back on him and hugged him in a manner less than comfortable. "Aw, you were talkin' about somethin'. I am so fuckin' rude."

"It's okay, Slick," Droog sighed and patted him on the back. "It's okay. It... it wasn't important."  
"No-no-no, don' talk like that," Slick pulled away and looked the other man in the eyes. "Don't yield t' me cause I'm the boss. Whatever you have t' say is important too." Droog looked down, regretting not lying from the get go. Now, if he invented some BS after hesitating so long, Slick would realize that something was off. He started slowly.  
"Do you remember what you said to me during the last heist, right after we had a disagreement?"  
"Oh no, did I insult your mother? 'Cause if I did I 'idn't mean it."  
"What? No. We don't even have mothe- never mind. You made me promise that I wouldn't get mad, no matter what happened."  
"Oh, tha's right, I did!" Slick exclaimed. "I w's figurin' I'd screw somethin' up an' didn't want you disappointed with me."  
A bit surprised at Slick's frankness, Droog resumed his confession. "Well, I may have obeyed the spirit of the promise, but I still broke it to the letter."  
"When."  
"After you... after you left, I lost it,"  
Slick seemed to sober up almost instantly.

"What did you do?"  
"It's fine now; no one was hurt. But," he swallowed anxiously. "Only thanks to Boxcars. I nearly killed Deuce. He tried to save you, you know that? He did, but I was just so enraged, and he was just so... there."  
"Diamonds..."  
"I couldn't keep it together. The thought of losing you, my moirail, of all people." He shuddered.  
"Wow," Slick thought aloud. "I really have that strong of a pacifying effect on you, huh."  
"It's not only that," Droog clarified. "But the whole truth will take a bit of time to explain. Suffice it to say, you give me reason to stay calm. But then you were gone! Not just from me, from Alternia. It wasn't a tragedy; it was an injustice!" he finished angrily. A spindly-fingered hand upon his cheek immediately reversed his temper.

Without instructions to stop, Slick repeated the act of papping Droog on the side of the face with more force than necessary. He was approximately the worst shoosh-papper in the world. In fact, he was so bad, he almost flipped back to good. His hand motions were so awkward they were endearing. Still, Droog could only take so much annoyance, no matter how pure the intentions. He grabbed the wrist of the offending hand and shoved it down.

"That's why I'm so antsy for everything to go back to normal. Specifically, you. Us. You think you're scary? I am fucking terrified of what I could become without you."  
Slick bowed his head. "You'd be okay. You're too smart to let that sorta thing happen to you"  
"Apparently not."  
"C'mon, that was a one time event, an' extreme at that. You've got more self-control than anyone I know."  
"What if you have it backwards, though? What if the cold, vicious murderer is the real me, and the rational one is just a facade? What if, in reality, you're all that stands between order and chaos? What if-"  
Slick put a finger to Droog's lips. "First, so what if you do need me? I need you too. And I need Deuce and Boxcars. Hell, you could argue that I need the Felt to keep me from getting too confident. I mean bored. Point is, no one lives in a vacuum. Second, there was something Snowman said on that heist. I've been giving it some thought. She said that no one got to tell her who she was but her," he pulled his hand away and paused, giving Droog the opportunity to speak.  
"So, what conclusion did you come to after that?"  
"I'm Spades Slick," he answered, grinning broadly. "And if you wanna be the rational guy, you be the rational guy. Okay?"  
Droog stared at him, eyebrow raised, but felt the upper corners of his mouth twitching. The man with one arm and one eye was giving him a lesson on optimism. He almost laughed.  
"We'll all be alright" Slick mumbled vaguely, before situating himself so that he was leaning against his friend. Droog mused on that for a bit.

"You sound so confident, but- dammit, Slick, are falling asleep again?"  
"Nuh-uh."  
"Yes, you are!" Droog shoved him away. "Go on, get up. It's bad enough that we'll have to cope with hangovers in the evening. Let's not add aches from sleeping on a sofa to the mix."  
"Fine," Slick grumbled, using Droog to keep him steady as he rose to his feet. His hand landed on Droog's upper thigh.

They both froze.

Thoughts ran through Droog's mind at a mile per minute.  
 _Any second now, he's going to recoil in embarrassment. Any second now. Or maybe he's waiting to gauge my reaction? Should I ignore it? Yes, better keep it safe. But would that offend-_

Slick casually, smoothly, slid his hand off, and less than smoothly, staggered off to his room.

Once inside, he stared at his hand, trying to ignore the flutterbugs churning in his stomach. In the living area, Droog stared at his thigh, trying to ignore the sensation of light-headedness. And both men told themselves the same thing.

_It was just the wine talking._


	10. Scandal on Prospit Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boxcars tells about his affair with the White Queen.

It was the late afternoon in the Midnight City, at a time when the overbearing Alternian sun was not shining quite so oppressively. The tranquil silence of the morning was becoming little more than memory as Dersites and Prospitians alike got ready for the night to begin, bringing the dormant city back to life. In little time, the area was brimming with activity.

If one were to stand in the middle of the city, one would be treated to a variety of noises. Car doors slammed and engines revved as the citizens with daily jobs made their commute to their place of work. Pots and pans clanged, water rushed from faucets, and bacon sizzled as breakfast was prepared. In a field, a bathroom scale was beaten mercilessly with an iron horse hitcher. Music seeped from every crevice, on both the MP3 players brought by some as relics from their old lives, and on the record players manufactured to harmonize with the motif of the city. And, as music was commonly a favored pastime, some of it was produced by actual instruments. The Midnight City was typically likened to an orchestra in the midst of warming up.

Slick trudged back to the entrance of the hideout. Deuce was pacing about outside the manhole cover, looking a bit antsy.  
"There you are!" he pointed at Slick in delight. "We were wondering where you went. You just got up and wandered off." He observed the horse hitcher. "Did you have to whack a guy?"  
With a grunt, Slick began to reply, but quickly refused. "Never mind. Let's just get inside"  
"Come on, come on!" Deuce said eagerly from inside the hideout. He practically slid down the ladder and was almost bouncing with impatience as Slick made his way back down at a languid pace.  
"Come on!" he continued. "Boxcars made french toast for breakfast, and it's really good!"  
Slick didn't respond, and Deuce could tell something was wrong by the fact that Slick was still on the ladder. On most days, he simply would have jumped off when he was halfway down. At the moment, he seemed to get lost in thought after every step, his motions deliberate and mechanical. Deuce hoped that Droog had not yet abandoned the breakfast table, as he suspected Slick may need him again. His premonitions would wind up accurate, but not in ways he would ever anticipate.

Once Slick reached the bottom, Deuce tried a different approach to bringing him back to reality- posing a simple question.  
"What does 'french' mean, anyway?  
A shrug.  
"You can put powdered sugar or syrup on yours, you know. Which are you gonna pick? I had a little bit of each."  
A solemn glance.  
"Um. Did I mention that I cut up one of your magazines and made a collage of it, and we all hung it on the fridge?"  
A brandish of a knife.  
"What!?"  
"Oh good, you're listening!"  
Slick shook his head and stomped into the kitchen with little more than an "'Evening." He took his usual place at the table wearily and reluctantly, judging by the presence of his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand.  
"Elbows off!" Boxcars barked at him. Slick glared, but moved nonetheless. His face fell as an abundance of food was placed in front of him. An omelette with ham and cheese occupied most of the plate. Bacon strips decorated the borders like so much artery-clogging parsley. Thick triangles of golden french toast teetered precariously on the edge of the plate, causing syrup to drip onto the table. Droog, sitting nearby, immediately reached forward to clean it up. Boxcars picked up on Slick's forlorn demeanor.  
"I know you like powdered sugar, but we need to get rid of this syrup before it goes bad," He clamped a meaty hand on Slick's shoulder, shaking him up a bit. "Tell you what. Finish those, and I'll make some more however you like 'em."  
"Sure, why the fuck not?" Slick snapped. "Give me all the damn toast you got. What's the difference? It's not like I'll ever lose this stupid gut."  
Boxcars was silent, as were the rest of them. Despite his damning words, Slick didn't finish what was on his plate. In fact, he scarcely made a dent in the omelette. Lately, he hadn't had much of an appetite. At first, when the poor eating habits he had adopted started dissipating, Droog hoped that it was due to Slick making an honest effort of getting back in shape. But, when he went too far in the opposite direction and developed worse habits, it became evident that the change was more likely due to his mood.

Deuce crept a fork towards one of the neglected bacon strips on the plate. Boxcars began to give a disapproving look, but when Slick didn't even raise a knife to the little thief, he backed off. Slick wasn't even eating anymore, anyway. He was applying his fork to the plate, but only where it would strike the actual plate. A casual observer might miss that he was attempting to tap out a rhythm. He threw the utensil down in disgust, feeling like he was wasting his time when nothing was coming to him.

"What's the use. I can't lose weight," he echoed his last self-criticism, then went on with his narrative of misery. "Can't play music right anymore. Can't stab right anymore. Pretty soon I'll just be a fat sack of desperation living others peoples' lives vicariously. Like Boxcars."

A large fist slammed the table, and plates and occupants alike went flying.  
"That's a fine as fuck how do you do."  
Droog scowled at Slick, more annoyed at the interruption which jostled his coffee mug than at any perceived rudeness. Slick tried to shy away from the wrath of his teammates. He wouldn't normally let them intimidate him, but he hadn't been feeling on top of his game.  
"I, I didn't mean it," he slunk down into his seat. "I don't really think you're pathetic or nuthin'."  
"Yeah, ya do," Boxcars grumbled in a low voice. "'Course, if you knew the whole truth, well," His voice got even lower. "Well, you'd pretty much be justified in thinking that."  
His companions gave sideways glances to one another. Deuce awkwardly coughed, Droog slowly turned the page of his newspaper, and Slick resumed playing with his breakfast. As he stirred the remnants of the omelette into an unidentifiable mess, it occurred to him just how little he truly knew about his mountainous associate. Deuce had a motor mouth, so you knew everything about his life whether you wanted to or not. Droog wasn't one for gossiping about himself, but considering how many feelings jams Slick had had with him, it was unavoidable that he might glean a factoid or two. But Boxcars? It wasn't much so much that he was the silent type. On the contrary. He could talk the ear off some luckless passerby, depending on the conversation. But, he had an uncanny knack for segueing so smoothly into a different topic, that the change was nigh imperceptible. A lightbulb flickered overhead, and simultaneously, it dawned on the three, just how many times Boxcars had used that technique any time a conversation had veered towards himself.

Droog eyed the light fixture. It quite the sight, and not in a good way. It was a gift for him, back when they were first getting their start in the Midnight City. Slick and Deuce had pooled their money to buy a diamond-encrusted hanging lamp. It was cubic zirconium. Droog loved that thing like a scruffy, one-legged kitten, but considering how much it had been malfunctioning lately, perhaps it was time to put it out of its misery.

"Aw geez," Deuce patted Boxcars' arm sympathetically. "Don't say things like that. They wouldn't think any less of you if they knew the truth!" Slick nodded and stole Droog's coffee mug to raise in salute.  
"Sure, I joke about your pastimes, but I ain't never met a guy who could pull a door off its hinges with your- uh, your-" He snapped his fingers.  
"Finesse," Droog finished.  
"Yeah, that."  
Boxcars gave a quick, but appreciative nod before returning a steely gaze to Deuce. "Whadaya mean _they_ wouldn't think less of me?" he interrogated. "Whadabout yerself?"  
"I- I already know everything," Deuce confessed, although it wasn't exactly a confession so much as what should have been a reiteration of the obvious. "And, I figured you knew that I knew, so I kept quiet as a basic courtesy."  
"How?" everyone demanded. Deuce shrugged, and a cheeky smile reached his eyes. He couldn't help it. There was something absurdly gratifying about defying expectations. The Courtyard Droll was just a diminutive buffoon, right? His was a simple duty bearing no tasks other than acting like a fool and mocking significant members of the community. Of course, the best Drolls did the best impersonations, and the best impersonations were executed after truly learning the person, and to truly learn them? Well, even Deuce had a few secrets.

Speaking of which...  
"I'm not saying you have to 'fess up," Deuce began, his voice calm and steady. "But it might make you feel at ease, not having it bottled up." Boxcars stared a hole through him.  
"Where am I?" he chuckled. "In a shrink's office?"  
He would try to refuse, but it was too late. Slick and Droog had already gotten into the spirit of the drama.  
"Spill it, spill it, spill it!" Slick chanted, pounding his fists on the table. Droog leaned over and whispered into his ear. With a vicious grin, Slick bored his eyes into Boxcars. "You might want to think about sayin' what you can before it's too late. 'Cause if you've got any secrets that could compromise the Crew, you'd better watch yourself," then, he added in a whisper, "Good one, Droog."  
"I'm not fucking gonna hurt the Crew!" Boxcars stood up and bellowed at them. Deuce yelped and even Slick and Droog started a bit in shock. "It's not got anything to do with the Crew," he continued, a little more gently.  
"Whoa, whoa, take it easy!" Slick put up his hands. "I was just trying to scare you."  
"Well, all yer doin' is pissin' me off!" Boxcars retorted, but had to stifle a laugh at the thought of Slick scaring him. He could see how Slick might come off as frightening to others, but to him, he was more akin to a tiny, venomous bug, something that could be thwarted by a large boot.  
"We have no doubts as to where your loyalties lie, Hearts," Droog contributed, feeling a trifle guilty. "It's simply a matter of knowing where we all stand."  
"Yeah, we know you'll always be there for us!"  
"Way to go after school special there, Deuce."  
"Sure _now_ ," Boxcars agreed gloomily. "Now I'll be there for yas," He sat down, leaned forward with arms on the table and took a deep breath. The others crowded in close. "Back on Derse, though... I could gotten us a into a mess a' trouble."

_Be HB in the past._

_You are now the Hegemonic Brute. You are making your way through the gilded streets of Prospit. A slim package is concealed beneath your uniform. There is nothing suspicious or unsavory about its contents, but for all you know it could contain sensitive material, and thus must be protected at all costs. It is a lengthy missive from the Black Queen to the White Queen. Despite being on opposite sides of the war, the Monarch and the Sovereign maintain an amicable relationship, which they take advantage of during ceasefires by keeping in touch whenever opportunity arises. However, because such opportunities are frequently at a minimum, their correspondences tend to be at a maximum. The Black Queen's latest letter is practically long enough to qualify as a novella. Although you rarely concern yourself with the gossip of ladies (not out of lack of interest, but because you are a gentleman who values privacy), you can't help but wonder what the two queens could write on with such verbosity. You wonder if verbosity is a word and make a mental note to ask the Newsy Beautician should you run into her during your journey._

_A Brute is an atypical choice for the task of mail delivery, but sometimes things just work out in strange ways. Normally, the letters would be transportalized from planet to planet, and delivered to royalty by a Prospitian or Dersite programmed for the job. Sadly, the Parcel Mistress of Prospit had suffered an injury due to a malfunctioning transportalizer. Although it was repaired, she would be laid up for a while._

_When the queen instructed you to transportalize yourself and her letter, you knew you could not protest, although you did find it curious that you would be chosen over someone like the Dignitary. He's far more suited to the task- amely because Prospitian civilians probably wouldn't cower in his presence whenever he so much as dared ask for directions._

_Not that you're bitter._

_You reach the palace not a moment too soon. The gold, combined with the brilliant sky, is beginning to hurt your eyes. The Royal Sentinels give you a brief grilling and inspection, then they scan the package for any dangerous content. You check out. They're about to relieve you of your burden, but something in your gut tells you to finish the job yourself; that_ you _need to see it through to the end. There must be more to this. Why else would the Black Queen send you, specifically? The Sentinels hesitate, but begrudgingly concede, on the condition that one of them accompany you en route._

_You attempt to converse with the Fledgling Sentinel. He does reciprocate, but after a few exchanges, it becomes clear that he would rather just do his job. You divert your attention to the goings-on around you. There aren't a whole lot of 'em. Occasionally, you pass by a group of Prospitians, some working, some on breaks. Some of them stare, some wave hello, and some can't be bothered to acknowledge the distraction. Most of the time, the only sound is that of your footsteps, set against the soft hum generated by numerous background voices._

_After a series of hallways and staircases, you are lead to a closed set of double doors. Despite its stately quality, it bears a simplicity that borders on the humble. The few intricacies of the design seem more of an afterthought, as though the implementation of them was resisted. The only engravings of any prominence occupy the middle of each door and depict the Queen's ring and the King's scepter. These, you can be certain of, are the doors to the King and Queen's chambers. Even without the handy visual cues, the style is distinctive enough to recognize. The Queen, although elegant, is not known for being flashy. Since she has final say in the interior design of their chambers, the doors are only too appropriate._

_You've always admired that about the White Queen. Not just her refusal to place herself upon a pedestal, but her integrity. You speculate that part of the reason for the look of the doors is to make visitors feel at ease. It doesn't work. Even considering that you will have to duck to enter the room, you suddenly feel quite small. You find yourself inadvertently gripping the package tighter, like your hands are shying away from the act of merely knocking. You loosen your grip before you damage any of the papers._

_The Sentinel pokes you in the back with his baton. You ask how long you need to wait out here. He raises an eyebrow, then pounds on the doors with a large fist. They swing wide upon, revealing next to nothing. The lights are too low inside to discern any obvious shapes. A dainty young lady, dressed in modest, yet flattering pastels, stands on the other side. The Elfin Maidservant gazes upon you with enormous, indecipherable eyes. She seems to be shocked by your presence outside the chamber doors, but whether that shock is good, bad, or neutral, is beyond you. Slowly, to show you mean no harm, you bow to her and reveal the letter to the Queen. She relaxes at this, a tiny smile lighting up her eyes. A pair of beautiful white hands find their way to the Maidservant's shoulders. The owner of the hands calmly tells the girl that she can handle this on her own._

_You quickly fall to one knee at the vision of the Adored Sovereign, reciting from rote memory the proper greeting when addressing royalty. There's a pregnant pause, and you worry that you bungled a word. But the Queen just laughs- a melodious sound- and steps forward to place a delicate hand on your shoulder. Her fingers, though impossibly long and thin, feel strong. The Sentinel clears his throat. After getting your attention, he slaps his baton into his palm a couple times, giving you a look that says, "No funny business". The Queen just smiles and shakes her head. He nods his head to her and withdraws from the situation. It's just the two of you now, and she beckons you in._

_The floor is polished marble, the color of saffron, but covered in a delicate blue rug. You tread as lightly as possible, as though disturbing the grain of the fabric was a grave sin. The Queen instructs you to relax and have a seat. You have to admit, the cushioned chairs in the Queen's room, unlike the stark, high-backed ones of the main hall, do look inviting. But before you get comfortable, you have a task to complete. You present to her the parcel from the Black Queen, which she relieves you of eagerly. She doesn't have to say so, but her joy at receiving correspondence from her friend is evident enough. She requests for the Maidservant to find a letter opener, explaining in the process that she does not intend to read the entire letter in one sitting, but she should scan it for any dire news. You wait patiently as she does, but begin to feel like you are intruding. You start to take your leave as she flips through the pages, but she insists once again that you take a seat. This time, you obey. She thanks you for indulging in her curiosity, and for going outside of your typical line of duty. You say it was your pleasure. She says she loves entertaining guests, and wishes to make your visit as cordial as possible. She calls the Maidservant over again to pour some tea, then dismisses her. You detect a hint of anise, and you close your eyes to absorb both the taste and relaxing effect it has. She says she thought you would appreciate it, and inquires about the legal status of the plant on Derse. You say it's still illegal. She tsks. While you consume the hot beverages, you engage in simple pleasantries. You note that while she seems content enough to listen to what you have to contribute, at the same time, she seems reserved. It's like there's something bothering her, that just wants to get the small-talk out of the way. She places the teacup and saucer on a nearby table and rises from her chair._

_Staring out a window, she asks if you know why you were summoned. You confirm that you do not, and in fact were wondering that very thing. She says you were selected because you were too considerate to even think of snooping. A nice gesture on its own, but in these turbulent times, it's even more prudent to gain trustworthy allies._

_She asks if she may know something more personal. You open your mouth to respond, but your private nature makes you reluctant to do so. The Queen doesn't wait for a response. She wants to know if your title ever feels inappropriate to you. You ask for clarification. She points out how formal, how gallant, how decidedly unbrutelike you are. You thank the lady for her kindness, but admit that you don't quite follow. She sighs heavily, not at your lack of understanding, but at everyone's lack of understanding. She may be referred to as "The Adored Sovereign", but she doesn't feel particularly adored. Despite her attempts to connect with her subjects, they still regard her as something untouchable, unapproachable._

_She is worshiped, but she'd give anything to be cherished._

_But she has the White King, doesn't she? She replies in the negative and takes her seat again. The two of them rarely have time for each other, and even if they did, what would it matter? They were bred for their respective roles, it wasn't like they married out of mutual romantic feelings. She confesses that she's been lonesome, and takes your hand in hers. Your muscles tighten, but as her grip becomes- not so much a clench, just more assured- you relax. You've been staring at your entwined hands the entire time. This realization awkwardly forces you to look her in the eyes. When you do, they pierce. Deeper than any abyss on Derse, they glimmer like the most precious fragments of obsidian. Those ageless, wise, cryptic eyes, those eyes which had witnessed death and glory, love and tribulation, are on you._

_She shifts forward a bit, eyelids drooped slightly._

_You finally get the hint and lean forward, nearly closing the gap. You want to give her what she wants, but you can't resist savoring the moment._

_She wears a hint of a smile, but it is tinged with sorrow. Does... does she feel guilt over what is about to transpire? No... she's afraid that you won't go through with it._

_You're a gentleman. Gentlemen don't do these sorts of things with married women, even if their marriages are soulless. But then again, would a gentleman just stand by while a lady was hurting?_

_Your lips don't wait for your brain to decide. The shock quickly wears off for the both of you, and you gradually fall into a rhythm. A gnawing at the back of your brain informs you that you'll regret this. You struggle to concentrate on the thought, and it becomes completely incomprehensible as the Queen reaches towards you. Her hand traces the side of your face and finally the back of your head and neck. She breaks away from the kiss to adjust her position- closer to you. With a grasp as gentle as you can manage, you pull her onto your lap._

_A snarly, abrasive voice from the depths of nowhere whinges that they already know this part._

_You are shaken from your illusory anecdote._

_Stop being Past HB._

Boxcars scowled at the interruption as an impetuous Slick drummed his fingers on the table.  
"Everyone knows about your affair with the White Queen," he reiterated.  
"It was a rather prevalent topic in the Gray Ladies magazine for some time," Droog agreed.  
"Now are you gonna confess anything, or did you just want to brag about your exploits?"  
"I was settin' the tone," Boxcars growled through his teeth. "So you'll get my motive for what I did later on."  
"Well, I think it's a lovely story."  
"Thank you, Deuce," was the half sardonic response. "May I continue?"  
The three were still facing him, expectantly. Slick gave a nod.  
"Here goes nothing."

_Be HB in the past, but not so far in the past as before._

_You are once again the Hegemonic Brute, and you have once again arrived on Prospit. But this time, it will be your last chance to visit the White Queen._


	11. Scandal on Prospit Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boxcars’ tale continues.

_The past few months have been engaging to say the least. You, the Hegemonic Brute, have formed an intimate alliance with the White Queen. Ever since your first meeting with the Sovereign, you have found plenty of excuses to visit her time and time again during the ceasefire. Despite being little more than glamorized booty calls, the two of you have become closer than anyone could have thought possible during these times. You learn a good deal of sensitive information as she learns to place you in her trust- information she once would share only with the Black Queen. She lets you in on the secret of her rings. She has countless golden bands, all replicas of her official ring. Only she can identify the real deal. She reveals a passion for the arts, and allows you to accompany her on her frequent trips to art galleries. She explains the significance of the statues and portraits, as well as the meaning of some of the more abstract pieces. You don't understand a lick of it, so you take her word for it. She asks if you would please follow her to the garden. There's something she feels she needs to divulge. You ask if you should retire to her chambers instead, if the conversation is to be private. She declines, explaining that a comfortable environment is the most crucial element- for the both of you. Besides, privacy won't be an issue._

_She leads you down a cobblestone walkway, where blossoms hang overhead. Pink and orange petals drift down to your feet. You arrive at a long stretch where stone walls mark the edges on both sides of your path. Each one is covered in a thick layer of vines. The Queen begins to slow, then stops in front of one particular section of wall. She brushes the vines aside to reveal an empty space. Her beckoning hand welcomes you into her secret hideaway. The cobblestone turns to squares of sparkling white concrete, which twist into a spiral. In the middle sit four garden chairs, with a small table between them. A teaset occupies the center. The area itself is shaped like a square, and in the corners are small gardens, filled not with flowers but with vegetables. Fruit trees, all growing up on the other sides of the walls, provide a nice bit of shade with their lush branches._

_She doesn't have to inform you that not many people know about this place- and you have the suspicion that you're the first Dersite to set foot here. There's something about the quiet atmosphere. You imagine you could tell all your wildest fantasies and deepest, darkest secrets, and the trees would keep them safe. She gestures for you to have a seat. Thanks to the relationship you have cultivated and the trust that would entail, you no longer feel like a particularly large and ungainly fly in her presence. Now, you gratefully accept a seat at the table, as well as a cup of tea. This one has a hint of citrus flavoring._

_You can't help but think of certain scenarios unfolding in this place. She asks why you're blushing. You stammer about how beautiful her sleek, pale carapace is, especially as a contrast to the vibrant green surrounding her. Not that she's not stunning all the time, of course. She takes your hand in hers and squeezes it, telling you it means a great deal to her to hear that. But you're not just saying it, you truly mean it. She nods quickly and swallows. She explains that lately, she hasn't gotten many compliments on her looks, whereas once up a time, they came like clockwork. The Queen's never been overly concerned with appearance, but the sudden waning of praise had made her recognize what she had taken for granted. The hushed whispers, heads jerking pointedly and sides being elbowed when her back was turned did nothing to help either. You can't help but growl a bit at the nerve of these people. What business is it of theirs whether the Queen looked her absolute best everyday? And if they couldn't see that she was, in fact, downright gorgeous no matter what, then that was their loss. She smiles at your fervor, but assures you that the whispers are merely products of concern. Lately, she hasn't felt up to decking herself to the nines everyday. Sometimes, she won't even put on any jewelry. It just sounds like so much effort, and she's been exhausted. Sure, she knows how to make herself look good. But it's always delightful to know that one's visage at its most basic is still pleasing to the eye, she says with a warm smile._

_You don't return the smile, but look firmly at her instead. You want to know why she's been exhausted. Is the war stressing her out? Tensions have been rising between the two sides. She agrees that that is part of the issue, and she fears the day when the two of you must either conclude your rendezvous altogether, or spend them with one eye open constantly. The true culprit, though, is her condition. She's sick. You take both her hands in yours and hold them tight. Sick with what? She refuses to burden you with the details. Whatever it is, it's the reason why some nights, she's plagued with uneasy sleep, and some days, she can't stand to eat a bite. It's why some days, she's too weak to hold a pen, and some nights, she's so cold, no numbers of blankets can alleviate her discomfort. In between light kisses to her fingers, you ask how serious it is. She gives a sad shrug. Victims can survive for sweeps, if they're lucky. It all depends on how well they take care of themselves. You place one last, prolonged kiss on the palm of her hand. You vow to write all her letters if her condition worsens, and to guarantee she never feels cold again. She leans in to kiss you on the cheek. Just being with you provides more warmth than the most extravagant, most immense fireplace. You adjust your chair so that it's right next to hers._

_You never in your wildest dreams, could have imagined being in a circumstance such as this. Here you are, a Brute, putting your intimidating, muscular arms around this person- not to overpower, as you have been trained, but in a soothing manner. And this person, despite being royalty, does not recoil at the touch of a commoner, but relaxes in your grasp. She touches your arms and hands in an experimental way, and lays her head upon your chest. You never could have imagined this, but here you are, listening to the White Queen pour her heart out, and the next thing you know, your own heart feels heavy. If this is matespritship, is this the price? You marvel at how naïve you used to be- a word you didn't figure on using to describe yourself, but in a sense, it applies. You can't help but ponder about your ignorance in other regards._

_Well, to start, you are one hundred percent ignorant of the fact that you just shoosh blocked your own Queen._

_You don't know it now, but will later hear the whole truth and all its gritty details. Once the Midnight City is built, you and the former Black Queen will form an uneasy bond based on mutual loves that were not to be. You will learn that the White Queen had been pining for someone in her letters to the Black Queen. And as a matter of fact, the Black Queen did have positive stirrings for the White Queen. She was certain, no one could understand her quite like the Adored Sovereign. Yes, she desired her as a moirail. So she slipped a note, a declaration of palemance, into that preposterously long letter. She ordered you to take it because there had been issues in the past with criminals intercepting the packages, hoping to find valuables- or just to sell the letters themselves, which, considering the writers, tended to be worth a pretty boonbuck. But no one would dare cross a Brute. You know the next part of the story all too well. The White Queen completely misinterpreted the reason for your temporary role as mail carrier, but to be fair, so did you. And somewhere along the line, the pale note went missing, never read. The Black Queen took her friend's silence on the issue as rejection. It was not until it was too late that she learned the truth._

_Okay, this future-of-the-past business is giving me a headache. I'm going back to good old past flashbacks._

_The next part of the story, after the White Queen's confession, is one of those aforementioned grittily-detailed arcs. To sum it up, the Black Queen grows bitter and jealous that your relationship with the other queen flourishes while hers never even got off the ground. Her letters become curt and impersonal, eventually ceasing entirely. She gives you assignments both well below your skill level, and well above. You're certain it's not deliberate; your queen would never be so immature. But you wonder if it's subconscious, and if you've done something to upset her, or if she's simply not thinking straight due to stress. As minor strifes break out once again on both Prospit and Derse, you come to the conclusion that the latter is the answer._

_It becomes exponentially more difficult to retain your relationship with the enemy queen, but the two of you make it work. Unfortunately, prying eyes and waggling tongues are determined to make it a whole lot more work for you. Word gets sent around, and twisted upside-down, and sent around again, and again. It reaches all sorts of ears, young and old alike, both Dersite and Prospitian. And one day, it reaches the Black King._

_Perhaps the version he hears is incorrect, or he hears it incorrectly, but either way, it leads to downfall. One night, he summons his queen into their private chambers to have a discussion. During this time, he expresses fear that the White Queen is poisoning the Hegemonic Brute (that is, you) with honeyed words. He worries that she is turning him against his mother country. The Black Queen protests, claiming the Queen is a good and honorable woman, and will never stoop to such underhanded means. Furthermore, the Brute is as loyal as can be. The Black King scoffs, but suggests she find some means of proof._

_Then, one fateful day, the Black Queen demands an audience with you. She escorts you into the war meeting room. A Dersite whom you have met on occasion, but with whom you are not familiar, stands hunched over a wide, ebony table. Her title, you will find out as the two of you become acquainted, is the Stoic General. A map, studded with tiny purple and yellow flags, is draped over the table. The Queen has enlisted her help with one of the earliest phases of the war. And whatever she deems an appropriate method of attack, you are to be an integral element. The Queen and the General have a discussion about current circumstances, what actions they can afford to take, what they can afford to lose, and so on. You're not certain where they're going with all of it, but the longer you stand there, looking back and forth at the two, the more you're filled with dread. Before the suspense kills you, the General turns her attention to you at long last. She gives you a debriefing on your recent indiscretions. You realize there is no point in denying them, but assure her that nothing will stand in the way of your duty to your home planet. Satisfied with your testimony, she spends the next half hour or so revealing her plot. It isn't terribly complicated, at least from your end. All your need to concern yourself with is your role, which is to ensure the capture of the White Queen._

_Wait, what? Oh, fuck this._

_You vehemently refuse. This proves to be a foolish course of action. It's hard to tell which consequence makes you want to melt into a puddle and slip through a crack in the floor more- the General's piercing stare, or the Queen, standing at your back, managing to loom over even you. But still, you refuse. You simply cannot go along with them. They'll just have to find another lackey. Even if they toss you into the brig, you refuse. Which, incidentally, is exactly what they do until you comply._

_Now, shackled in your sparse, dimly light jail cell, you are faced with a dilemma. Do you commit to your principles, knowing that they may find someone more brutal (no pun intended) to finish the job? Or, do you agree to cooperate, betraying your heart but knowing you can at least be there for your beflushed?_

_As you contemplate whether or not "beflushed" is a word, you hear a succinct, hushed conversation between other prisoners. Tales of your minor treachery have made their way down the grapevine. Most upstanding citizens feel second-hand shame, but your fellow outlaws speak of you in awe. Over the next few days, you grow accustomed to it, but then something they say grabs your attention. "Droll." You carefully turn an ear their direction, not wanting to frighten them. The bits of information you can latch onto chill you to the bone and make your decision a whole lot easier. The next morning, you are unshackled and guided out, as you finally agree to assist with abducting the White Queen._

_It's that, or sell out the closest things you have to friends. Jack Noir. The Draconian Dignitary. And above all, the Courtyard Droll. Three respectable Dersites, and the only ones who didn't give a rat's ass about your affair. Well, except for the Dignitary, but he just wanted all the juicy gossip. These esteemed men, you learned in prison, would wind up being used as leverage. Just as the Black King suspected the White Queen of influencing your mind, he suspected you of doing exactly the same to your cohorts. It did not help that the Droll was already practically attached to you at the hip, or that Noir wasn't the most patriotic character around, or that the Dignitary was a loose cannon. But maybe it's not a total lost cause. As you make your way through the Prospitian palace, the gold feels less cozy, delightful, and welcoming than usual, and more like a suffocating supernova. You rack your brain, trying to figure out a way to warn the Queen, but no matter where you go, you can feel the eyes of your colleagues at your back. You consider accidentally-on-purpose botching the whole job, but your friend's faces flash through your eyes. They wouldn't last one second in the slammer; it would break them. Maybe one second, for Jack, if he could find someone to stab and get it out of his system. Suddenly, it hits you- the chambers of the King and Queen of Derse contain all sorts of hiding spots and openings to secret passages. And if the White Queen's secluded garden patio was any indication, such covert architecture may be a common feature on Prospit as well. You stall a bit, hoping that the Queen is aware of what is happening, and giving her the chance to escape._

_Your subordinate, the Overachieving Brute, beats you to the punch. He bursts into the chambers, once again bathed in darkness. The Queen, anticipating your arrival, assumes him to be you and does nothing to conceal herself. Once she realize her mistake, it's too late. He's already overwhelmed her. It's over._

_Later, you numbly listen as the Black Queen assures you, with a somewhat menacing grin, that the White Queen will not be mistreated. She won't be sent to the same prison used to hold individuals such as yourself. Then, you numbly stand by as the Black King congratulates you and the other Brute on your commitment to the cause. You are offered an even more auspicious position, but you insist you must respectfully decline. You seek solitude._

_If only there was a way to speak to the White Queen once more, to touch those graceful fingertips, feel her lips upon yours. To tell her how deeply in the red you were, and to know if she harbored the same feelings. But the shame of failing her holds you back. No, not just shame. Fear. How can you possibly hope to convince anyone that you only desire a conjugal visit? You don't have a spotless track record anymore, and would surely be accused of attempting to break the Queen out. That'd be a death sentence for her, you, and probably your friends. You try penning a letter, but don't have the same way with words as the Queens. You spend the next week rewording the letter, trying the find the perfect medium between expressing yourself and not potentially incriminating yourself. That letter never leaves your pocket._

_The White Queen's confinement, as promised, was relatively pleasant, as far as jails went. The same could not be said for the guards who kept track of her. The lack of access to proper nourishment and the stress from the borderline abuse only served to aggravate her condition._

_Your only consolation was that she did take some secrets to her grave._

_Stop being Past HB._

"So there ya have it" Boxcars finished. "You thought I was pathetic before, you didn't know the half of it," There was a moment of silence before someone spoke up.  
"I'm afraid I still don't know the half of it," Droog offered. "What, in your story, could possibly be considered 'pathetic'?" Boxcars looked at the other two and gave a gesture of, "Do you believe this guy?"  
"Ah, okay, fer one," he began in an almost condescending tone, "I nearly cost you guys yer jobs and maybe lives 'cause I let my emotions get the better of me. But even worse, I couldn't even commit to that. Worrying about lettin' the White Queen down just made me let her down even further."  
They were quiet once more, as the other three meditated over the fact that they had never had to choose between one person or group and another. Slick leaned forward, fingers to his lips, eyes boring holes into the table in rapt contemplation.

"Do you regret it?"  
Boxcars thought for a moment. "What exactly are you askin' if I regret?"  
"Bein' with the crew."  
"Fuck no!" he proclaimed emphatically. "Hell, I was just thinkin' at least some good came outa this frogforsaken war. No, no, my only regret is not getting closure."  
Deuce gave him a pat on the arm. "She knew you cared for her."  
Slick sighed in disappointment. "Can't believe I wasted my fuckin' morning listening to this drivel."  
"Excuse me?"  
"Oh, come on. You really think I give a shit about every detail of your sordid affair? You coulda spent your time on Derse frolicking around in a pink tutu or somethin. All I'm concerned with is whether you’re on our side. A simple 'I almost abandoned you guys for the White Queen' woulda sufficed."  
Droog smacked him upside the head. "This man has just bared his soul to us. Now show some courtesy, you little shithead."  
"Actually, it's-" Boxcars stammered slightly, unable to hold back a smile. "It's really fine. Yeah, really. But I went ahead an' told ya everything," he turned to Slick, who was rubbing the back of his head and pouting, "So you'd get why I am the way I am now."  
"How d'ya mean?"  
"About that 'living other peoples' lives vicariously' business you mentioned earlier. No one could replace the White Queen, so instead a' focusing on my own romantic life, I started focusing on other peoples'. The last thing I wanna see is someone beating around the bush like I did"- he glared pointedly at Droog- "And letting that woman or man of their dreams slip through their grasp"- he glared pointedly at Slick.

Slick looked at Droog in confusion, who shrugged a bit too deliberately. He began to feign ignorance, but was allowed to relax when Slick decided instead to probe Boxcars once more.  
"Didn't you hook up with the Nomadic Balladeer when we were all exiled, though?" he grilled. "What was up with that?"  
"Hmm, a statuesque, yet graceful and humble Prospitian woman. Can't imagine what Boxcars would see in her," Droog droned sardonically.  
"Yeah, ya got me," Boxcars put a hand behind his head. "Datin' her was what made me choose the path I've taken. I was only with her 'cause she reminded me of the White Queen and that wasn't fair ta anyone."  
"Makes sense," Slick agreed. "And hey, good luck."  
"With what?"  
"You know, your matchmaking endeavor," he explained. "If I find any wishy washy lovebirds, I'll send 'em your way."  
Boxcars chuckled and rose from his chair. He signified the end of discussion time by clearing away the dishes.  
"Like a shellbeast in molasses," he muttered on his way to the sink.

An hour passed, and Droog assumed he was in the clear. He was wrong. The next time Slick caught him alone, it became obvious that he had not let Boxcars' comments slip his mind.  
"So, uh you red for anyone?" he began clumsily and bluntly. Droog hesitated. He had faith in his ability to deceive almost anyone. Slick wasn't among those people.  
"I hardly think that's any of your business," he answered, regretting it immediately.  
"So you're sayin' you like someone who doesn't feel the same," Slick suggested. "Or maybe you've got the hots for some guy who's already got a matesprit." Droog began walking away in annoyance. "No wait, I've got it- you're tryin' to choose between two guys!" Droog stopped and turned to him.  
"Three guys? Four?"  
"Are you quite done?"  
"Yeah, I'm just messin' with you."  
"Anyway," Droog continued, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't pry. Godhead knows I get enough of that from Boxcars."  
"So there is someone!" Slick grinned.  
"No, this is purely hypothetical."  
"Purely Hypothetical? That's a weird name"  
"It's not- ugh, never mind."  
A brief pause.  
"So what do you see in him?" Slick asked. _Was that a hint of shyness in his voice? No, couldn't have been._ Maybe listening to Boxcars' story inspired Droog to be a bit more daring with his words. He thought for a moment about how to vocalize his opinions, allowing himself to smile fondly in the process.  
"I see an electrifying passion, a larger than life personality, and some rather endearing traits under a gruff exterior."  
"Uh huh. Is he hot?"  
"W-well, I would say so. Perhaps not conventionally speaking-"  
"Good in bed?"  
"Spades!"  
"Hahaha, I'm just messing with ya again. I don't wanna know."  
"Well, you wouldn't get to anyway. We haven't been intimate yet."  
Slick snorted disdainfully. "Sounds like a real winner."

Droog looked at his shoes. He got his wish. He didn't want Slick to suspect anything yet. So why did he feel worse?  
"If you don't need anything, I'm heading to the bar," Droog announced, avoiding, with realization, eye contact. Slick smirked and gave him a wink.  
"Have fun with Hypothetical."  
"Sure."


	12. Sweet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Droog learns that Slick has been overdosing on licorice, which he’s been using to calm his nerves because he’s been plagued with vivid nightmares ever since he came back to life.

At four in the morning, most inhabitants of the Midnight City were stationed safely in their homes. Their windows were closed and curtains drawn tight to protect against the inevitably rising sun. A small of number of brave or stupid stragglers wandered the streets. Most of them could fall into one of two categories: the lawless, and those who would pursue them. And then there was Diamonds Droog, who, although on a technical note, was among the lawless, was presently nothing but a harmless lush. Well, harmless in the sense that he had no intent to maim or kill. Putting the hurt on some chump who looked at him funny was never out of the question. Fortunately, as he would prefer not to bloody his clothes again, and unfortunately, as there were quite a few faces in need of a fist, and Droog's fist was in need of a face, he was mostly left to his brooding. When he approached the tavern, the lollygaggers loitering outside scrammed. As soon as he set foot inside, the Speakeasy Proprietor started preparing his usual drink. The patrons hushed their raucous discourse, and a few brawlers picked themselves up off the floor. Droog had to admit, having that much influence, that he could alter the atmosphere of a place simply by being there, was intoxicating. In fact, he could probably have one drink and be satisfied.

Four drinks later, Droog was stumbling back to the hideout, shielding his eyes from the glowing horizon. He had drunk more than he would have liked, definitely enough to get his keys taken away, had he not walked, but not quite enough to regret it either at the moment or later. Certain other individuals did not have that luxury, as he would soon come to learn.

He pried the manhole cover away after a couple sloppy attempts, then grimaced at the long path down. His legs felt wobbly and uncooperative. The more he tried to will himself to just climb down already, the more firmly they rooted themselves to the road. Exhaustion and light-headedness set in, and he allowed himself to collapse for a bit. He leaned over, peering into the darkness, trying to recall the depth. His eyes quickly adjusted, giving him a view of the interior which only provoked discouragement. The floor looked rather far away. But- oh, how convenient! The floor was rising up to greet him!

After extricating his face from the concrete and righting himself, he assessed the current situation. Everything seemed to be as it should. He had not broken anything in the fall, either on his person or in their possession- although his cheek smarted and would develop an unsightly welt later. He was not the only poor soul still awake. The sound of retching graced his ears like some untoward greeting home. So Slick was suffering the same fate. He briefly considered it odd that he could distinguish his crew-mates in such a manner, but decided such contemplation was better left to the sober mind. He slipped off his shoes and shuffled down the hallway to his room. A crinkling sound beneath his feet stopped him. _For fuck's sake, was he the only one who thought to clean up after himself?_ He reached down- nice and slow- to pick up the offending piece of refuse. An empty bag of licorice scottie dogs. It was not the only one of its kind. Droog collected the rest of the bags and clenched them. He took a moment to gather his scattered thoughts and barged into the bathroom, evidence still in hand. This was no ordinary case of porcelain god worship.

Slick was draped over the toilet, breaking momentarily from using it as receptacle for his stomach contents, and instead resting his head on the seat. His eye, though open and pointed in Droog's direction, was too unfocused to note his presence. Only when Droog walked over to the sink to get a drink and splash water on his face did Slick finally come around.

"You gotta mark on yer face" he slurred. Scottie dogs, even when consumed in excess, did not cause the dialect of drunkards. That was clearly a result of fatigue. "Did some asshole touch you? I can get rid of 'em. Won' no one hafta know a thing."  
"Just, just stop," Droog interrupted wearily. "Never mind about me. Did you spend the entire night eating candy?"  
"I'm think I'm blind" Slick muttered. In his defense, he was half right.  
"No you're not. How did you know I injured my cheek, then?"  
"I gotta- wai' for it- Slick sense for these things."  
Droog groaned audibly. "Who cares. Now what's this-" his interrogation was cut short by Slick giggling in manufactured bliss.  
"I caaan't seee yooou," he sang, groping around as though in the dark. Droog sighed angrily.  
"No? Are you sure 'bout that?" He then made a display of undoing the button on his pants. Slick's eye snapped right to the other man's crotch. Not quite the reaction he expected, but it served its purpose. Droog hummed quietly and redid the button.  
"What did I tell you?"  
"Isha Gristmas miracle!"  
"Right. And why, pray-tell, did you not look in the opposite direction?"  
"Want'a see wha' yer packin'."  
"A .44," Droog answered dryly. "Now if you're done playing around, would you mind explaining yourself?" Slick grumbled his refusal.  
"There's nothing to expla-" He lurched suddenly, covering his mouth, and went back for another round. Droog cringed at all the noise. Grossness factor aside, the agony he knew Slick must be experiencing was the worst part of it. He crouched onto the floor as Slick finished, panting. He rubbed circles on his back with a light, yet firm touch. Minor profanities tumbled from Slick's mouth with as much grace as the half-digested candies. He was still panting, and gasping, and then crying.

"Oh, Slick," Droog sighed again. Any feelings of frustration left his mood. Now he was concerned. Slick, always obsessed with his fearless image, was never one to "have a good cry." He always kept it in as long as possible, until the day when the dams would burst, and the tears would be flowing without his consent. His sobs, though silent, wracked his body every so often. He teetered unsteadily, shuddering all the while. Droog mentally remarked about how weak and out-of-sorts he looked. It wasn't right.  
"Talk to me," he pleaded. "Talk to me, Spades," the first name referral elicited a delayed reaction. Slick looked into Droog's eyes, and his expression was downright heartrending. Like a lone warrior gazing upon an army millions strong. Like a prey, cornered and wounded. Like- no, there was no proper analogy. He had seen things carapace was not meant to see.

This could take a while, but for Slick, Droog would stay in there all week.

He handed Slick a wad of toilet paper to wipe off his face, then fixed him a glass of water. Slick started to grab for it eagerly, feeling dehydrated, but scarcely had the energy to raise his arm to do so. Droog took pity on him and poured some of the refreshing liquid into his mouth. He pulled it away after a few gulps, which Slick protested. Droog silenced him.  
"Give your stomach a chance to process that first," he instructed, placing the glass on the counter top. Slick nodded, hiccuping slightly. Droog did not verbally implore him again, but gripped his shoulder while meeting his gaze. Neither one spoke for a moment, and Slick felt his eyes grow hot and wet again. He didn't let the tears impede his thoughts.  
"Oh, Godhead, I'm so fuckin' tired," he choked. "It won' go 'way, an it's scarin'-" He shook his head at his admission of terror. "An' 'm tired of it. I, I need help. Diamonds, you got- you've gotta help me."  
"Of course. You know I stand by you," Droog assured him. "But I need more to go on. Is this still about..." He began ambiguously, not wanting to open healing wounds. Slick shook his head. So it wasn't any of the apparent issues, like the loss of certain body parts.

"I been," Slick awkwardly paused mid-sentence, his mouth still agape. He looked off in the distance in fierce concentration. Droog knew what was going on in his head. He could almost see the gears turning. Only after giving in and opening up, did it occur to Slick how uncomfortable it would be to admit the truth. But he was in too deep, so the only logical course of action-  
"Don't bother inventing a convincing lie," Droog pre-emptively reprimanded. "You can't deceive me."  
"You'll think it's dumb."  
"Why do you always say that?" Droog asked. "It always goes the same way. You admit something, I tell you you're being dumb, you stab me, and we all have a good laugh about it later."  
Slick chortled at that. "Fine, but this can't leave th' room" He twiddled his fingers as he started his confession. "I've been having these fucked-up dreams."  
"That is dumb," Droog commented, his tone neither mocking nor cold, but one of gentle ribbing. "Aren't you a little old for the 'nightmares can't hurt you' speech?" Slick stuck out his tongue.  
"No' like that, asswipe." He closed his eyes for a moment and sat up straight. The time for joking was over. Droog folded his hands in his lap and listened politely.  
"In my dreams, I'm this weird monster, an' I go 'round killin' people." He paused his story, anticipating Droog's questioning of why such dreams would be considered troubling. He said no such thing, and only gestured for Slick to continue. Still, Slick wanted Droog to understand where he was coming from, or else the confession would be pointless.  
"A' firs' it felt pretty good, like cathartic," he smirked. "Killin' a bunch a nameless jerks. But then it was ev'ry night, same kinda dream," his voice softened. "It didn't mean anything; it didn' matter, I thought, but each time the dream comes up it ge's more vivid. I's not dreamlike anymore, y'know?" he hiccuped again and started trembling, the stubborn words caught in his mouth. A few "fuck me"s slipped out as he tried to hide his face in shame. Droog pulled his hand away and just held it. He squeezed it gently, giving Slick the chance to get it together. Slick squeezed back and began speaking.  
"When I close my eye, I can see the faces of the people I killed. See their look of terror an' confusion and pain. See their twisted broken bodies. When i's quiet, I can still hear their mangled cries for help. I feel their blood on my han' but washin' it doe'nt make it feel clean."  
_"Godhead fucking Pickle Inspector!"_ Droog wanted to exclaim. He knew Slick's mental state had always been a wreck, but this was a ten car pile up. He wisely kept his mouth shut.  
"But tha's no' all. Abstract representations of Prospitians an' Dersites became actual random Prospitians an' Dersites, became faces I reco'nized, then people I knew. I, I don't wanna go t' sleep and have my next victim be you or, or Deuce or Boxcars. Okay sure, it's not real, but if I have to picture y'r broken corpse like-" He was done. It was out, he had to figure out what to do from there. "You get the idea."

"God, truly? And just how long has this been going on?" Droog asked. Slick's eye widened and for a second he winced.  
"Snc thhst whrlst mrm."  
"Please?"  
Slick shrunk down. "Since the heist where I lost my arm."  
"Slick!" Droog did not yelp, because Droog doesn't yelp, but it was a bit higher pitched and more startling than his typical inflection. "Why haven't you-"  
"Why didn't I say anything. Why did I let this go on so long," Slick viciously, mockingly snarled. "Maybe I didn't say anything 'cause I didn't want a damn lecture!"  
"I promise, I won't lecture-"  
"Pfft right. I dun even know why I'm telling y' this crap. You're jus' gonna tell me everything I shoulda done. Stupid Jack, if he woulda taken care of his health, should've done this shoulda done that." His face fell. "Tell me I'm wrong."  
"You are," Droog insisted. "Is that really how you see me? How you think I see you? That whenever I see you suffering, I'll smugly give you the old 'I-told-you-so?' That I care more about being right than giving you the help you need? That your troubles are so inconsequential, all they're worth is pointless preaching?" He lifted Slick's chin and made him look at him. "No. No, of course you don't. There's no way we could have remained moirails this long, or even become them in the first place, with that sort of miscommunication. We both know full well that you're not exclusively simple and I'm not exclusively clever," He backed off, letting Slick absorb what he had been told. Slick regarded his words with a curious expression.  
"So why don't you stop being a damn fool, and stop shoving all your problems in the corner where they just accumulate until dealing with them seems insurmountable, instead of putting them in the clothes hamper where they belong for once? See, that's a lecture."  
Slick grinned and slugged Droog in the arm. "Okay, you made your point, so what dya suggest?"  
"Nothing yet," he admitted. "Something tells me I haven't heard the whole story, so until I have, I can't do a thing."  
"What's left t' tell?"  
"How do the licorice scottie dogs fit into the picture? You've always eaten them for their stress-relieving qualities, but never gorged yourself on them."  
"Oh yeah- hey gimme the water, my throat's dry as fuck." Droog gave him the glass, ready in case he needed assistance again. Slick managed to get a few sips down without dropping the glass, then handed it back. "Okay, well after the nightmares got bad, I thought maybe I could figure out a way to fix 'em with shadow magic. So I started staying up late researching. Pre'y soon, I just stopped sleeping so I could spend more time looking for a solution. But the longer I looked, th' more hopeless it seemed. That pissed me off, so I've been eating scottie dogs everyday just to calm my nerves. Bu' my head hasn' been screwed on straight, so I kin'a overdid it tonight."

Droog threaded his fingers together and placed them on his lips in rumination. "Do you honestly think this can be solved by supernatural means?"  
"Sure? Whydafuck not? I solve lotsa problems that way."  
"I'm just saying, perhaps the issue runs deeper."  
"Wha' does that mean?" Slick questioned suspiciously, "You think 'm troubled 'r some'in'?"  
"That's what I hope to find out. For now, just get cleaned up," Droog ordered. He couldn't tell if Slick had managed to make it to the bathroom before he got ill the first time, but he had no interest in finding out. At any rate, Slick had spent the last few days lounging around in the same clothes- whatever he could still squeeze into. The lack of physical activity permitted him to get away without bathing for some time, but he was starting to abuse the privilege.

"Yeah, a shower'll feel pre'y good." Slick rose to his feet. His knees wobbled a bit, but otherwise he willed himself to stay steady. Droog remained close by just in case.  
"In your condition, I would recommend a bath," he suggested as his eyes followed a slightly swaying Slick toward the tub. "Here, hand me your clothes. I'll get 'em washed."  
"No way. Showers're better," Slick argued, first removing his shoes and socks. "Y' can piss and sing in there all ya want and no one gives you any lip."  
"Since when has the threat of being given lip prevented you from doing either of those acts wherever you please?"  
"Not- not wherever," Slick protested, but with a slight giggle, so he couldn't have been protesting very hard. He slipped off his jacket next and handed it over.  
"Yes, yes wherever. On that note, I'm never taking you to another funeral again."  
"Good, they're boring," Slick jeered. He commenced with getting fully undressed. Without clothes in the way to obscure anything, Droog could tell that he had gained more weight since the last time he saw him in the nude. If his small paunch, the circumference of his arms and thighs, and his overall squishiness attribute were any indicators, Slick had no idea how to diet- f he was indeed making the effort. That didn't stop him from being any less sexy- _dammit Droog, keep it together!_  
"What're you lookin' at?" Slick pouted, narrowing his eyes. _An opening!_ Rather than implicate his less than pale feelings, Droog took the opportunity to draw attention to Slick's already bruised ego. _Because that's what moirails do._  
"Your flab. The jiggling- it's so mesmerizing," Droog teased.  
"Dickhead" Slick threw the rest of his clothes Droog-ward. _Good, he didn't take it too hard, but neither did he suspect anything amiss._  
"Lard-butt."

Slick stepped into the tub and pulled the curtain closed. So, shower it was. After letting the water run for a moment, Slick cleared his throat impatiently.  
"Can I help you?"  
"Li'l privacy please?" He stuck his head out and tried to shoo Droog away.  
"Huh-uh. I'm staying right here in case you slip," Droog made himself comfortable and folded his arms to show his conviction.  
"Pfft, so you can help poor helpless me up?"  
"No. So I can point and laugh. Then help you up."  
Slick grinned and returned to his shower. "I love you, Droog."

"Hey Slick?" Droog began after a short pause.  
"Yeah."  
"Mind if I ask you something which could be a trifle insensitive?"  
Slick didn't answer.  
"Well?"  
"Oh sorry, I forgot you can't see me givin' you the 'Are you fucking kidding?' look," Slick drawled. "Ask away."  
"Good. Well, it's about your dreams, naturally. Actually, it's more to do with your reaction. From what I've gathered of our last feelings jam, you want control over your own life, which you seem to have gained at long last. But the dreams show that there is still one person who can wrest control away- you."  
"Bingo."  
"Right. That makes sense. But why should the memories of these unreal deaths perturb you so? You've killed in cold blood in real life, but never complained. Unless... you haven't been using shadow magic to erase your memories, have you?"  
"Nooooo... it's complicated," Slick sighed. "For one thing, I try to kill only assholes or people who deserve it or a'yone who's a threat t' us, but i' the dreams, i's everyone, like inn'cent bystanders an' frien's. But yeah, there's something else. Y'know how sometimes we hafta bump off some poor bastards 'cause they saw or heard too much? Yeah, I don' like that. I dunno, maybe it's guilty conscience, maybe I just don't wanna waste my stabs on some loser."  
"You? Feel guilt?"  
"Haha, nah I never feel bad about my actions, but sometimes I guess I feel bad about the consequences. 'Cause like, these people didn't do nothin' wrong. I don't have anything against them. They jus' happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They're the ones that don't go 'way so easily. Soooo, I composed songs for them. Nothing major, just stuff to appease their memories, I guess."  
Droog smiled. "That's... that's actually beautiful."  
"Yeah yeah yeah, but now that's not really an option."  
"I take it I don't need to ask why you didn't bring this up during our piano discussion."  
"Pff, even if my arm hadn't taken a permanent leave a' absence, there're way too many dream victims to write songs about alla them."  
"Hmm"  
"'Hmm', what does 'hmm' mean?"  
"It means I think you threw in the towel too early. You should get back into music; it's clearly helped you in the past."  
"Oh, really? Well, if you say so."

Droog was smiling broadly. At last his words had gotten through to Slick! He was pretty sure they had. Then his smile faded as he realized the tone of Slick's voice was one of a less than sincere quality. And not an "I'm brushing you off" insincere, an "I'm going to make you regret saying anything" insincere. Droog only got to spend a brief span of time wondering, when his thoughts were interrupted by Slick's impassioned humming. Well, that wasn't too bad. _Hold on, this isn't random; it's a song._ A song the Crew had sung before they were the Crew. In exile, it was something of an anthem to them, and only continued to be apropos as they made their mark on the city. Slick knew full well that not a one of them could resist singing along.

"Come ride with me  
through the veins a' history  
I'll show you how God  
falls asleep on th' job

"An' how can we win  
when fools can be kings  
Don't waste your time  
or time will waste you"

He went back to humming. Perhaps he would be merciful and stop before the chorus _nope no such luck._

"No one's gonna take me alive  
The time has come to make things right  
You and I must fight for our rights  
You and I must fight to survive!"

They harmonized at the top of their lungs, three times in a row.

"Hey, that did feel good," Slick chirped, sticking his arm out for a towel.  
"The shower or the singing?" Droog gave him the desired object.  
"Li'l a both."

Droog left to take Slick's grungy clothes to the laundry room. While he started on those, Slick dried off and put on pajamas. Droog returned to the hall, to find himself face to face with Slick. He rubbed the back of his head, looking nervous.  
"Droog, can I ask you a favor?"  
"That depends. Is it the kind of favor that ends with me being publicly humiliated?"  
"Oh my Godhead, you are never gunna let that funeral thing go."  
"That was in regards to the last wedding we attended."  
Slick briefly looked pensive. "Stop trying to get me off track. I 'as hopin' I could convince you to sleep in my room. Like in case I start sleep walking, you can stop me before I sleep murder anyone."  
"That sounds reasonable," Droog shrugged. "But why can't we use my room? Yours is such a sty."  
"I like having lotsa shadow magic at my disposal in the dead of the night," Slick explained. Whenever Slick cast a spell, it used up some shadow magic, and he had to wait to recharge. The more "magic in the air", the faster recharging went. Slick had chosen the sewer as their hideout due to the high concentration of magical energy. His bedroom was especially thick with it. Droog hesitantly allowed Slick to drag him into the room. He anticipated jumping onto the nearest chair like a child trying to avoid imaginary lava, but it wasn't as bad as he feared. The bed was another story. Normally, he refused to sleep on the floor, but he wouldn't touch Slick's bed with a ten foot pole. Blankets were piled up at the end, tangled with unwashed garments. Empty beer cans littered the sides. It was practically impossible to lie down without getting covered in crumbs or finding a candy wrapper. And Droog had a sneaking suspicion the sheets hadn't been washed since the WV administration. He brought in some pillows from his own room to use as a makeshift bed.

The next day, Slick confessed to Droog his ulterior motive.  
"Do you remember how, during the feelings jam, I started to fall asleep on you?"  
"Yes, so?"  
"Well, the crap dreams started up immediately then too. But they felt distant and vague the way dreams are s'posed to."  
"And you thought I had something to do with it"  
"You or the alcohol, but I ruled alcohol out."  
"And what of last night? What's your verdict?"  
"The dreams didn't get to me. Maybe it's a moirallegiance thing."  
"I'll sleep in your room again. Hopefully we'll get this solved soon."  
"Oh, thank Godhead. It felt kinda weird askin' again."

Their slumber begun the same as before, with mutual sobriety being the exception. Slick found a relatively bare spot on his bed, and Droog dragged in as many pillows as he could find around the hideout. Their sleep, if uncomfortable, was peaceful. Halfway through, Slick awoke with a start. Droog was the next one to have his sleep disturbed- specifically caused by Slick alternating between wrapping him in a tight embrace and deliberately touching Droog's face.  
"Hrrnn, what are you doing here?"  
Slick kept groping, desperately. He didn't seem one hundred percent awake. Droog grabbed his hand and Slick regained lucidity.  
"I, uh, fell out of bed."  
"And just happened to land right here?" Droog scoffed. "What about your tried-and-true excuse, 'I was cold'?"  
"Is it too late to say that?"  
"Slick, what are you doing?" Droog asked in a tone that demanded no funny business.  
"It-was-you!" Slick blurted out. "It was pretty hazy, thank Godhead, but one moment you were there and then you were dead, and I don’t know if it was because of me or-"  
Droog brushed the back of his hand against Slick's cheek. "Shh, it's okay. I'm here."  
"I know, I know," Slick groaned. "I just- fuck, I can't-"  
"You can stay right here," Droog softly confirmed. Slick smiled weakly. "We'll be fine, remember?"

Slick had an easier time falling back asleep than Droog. The latter was met with an acute awareness of his situation. This man, to whom he had become inexplicably attracted, was lying calmly by his side, curled around Droog's arm. Droog lightly ran his hand along Slick's side. He would allow himself no more luxuries. Just having the opportunity to ogle him without being questioned was enough. He couldn't sleep with the knowledge that Slick was right there, looking cute as ever, and he honestly didn't want to.

Slick must have subconsciously sensed Droog boring holes into him with his eyes. He opened his eye wearily, and cocked his head at Droog's enraptured expression. Realizing he had been caught, Droog backed away in a panic. This in turn caused Slick to panic. He clutched Droog's shirt and pulled him close again. Confident that he had not done anything phenomenally idiotic, Droog smiled and took Slick's hand in his own. He loosened those clawed fingers from the fabric and started to move Slick's hand back to his side of the "bed". Then his eyes met Slick's, and he froze momentarily. Instead, he slowly grabbed the back of Slick's head and pulled him closer. Slick put his hand back on Droog's chest tentatively, as though to push him away. But he did not. They closed the gap. Droog's eyes darted to Slick's lips and Slick gave him a look of hunger. It was too late to back out; they were too far gone.

Droog was the one to initiate the kiss, but it didn't take long for Slick to reciprocate. His kisses were forceful, but sans desperation. As with everything he did, there was intensity. Being sleep-deprived, Droog found it challenging to keep pace. Droog teasingly pulled away, trying to subdue Slick's fervor and dominate the act. This only amplified Slick's longing. He growled irritably and pulled Droog back into the kiss. Droog tried again, only this time, he placed a hand to Slick's mouth to stop him. (Slick seemed too shocked at Droog's audacity to break his hand off.) He lazily pulled his hand away, letting it glide onto Slick's shoulder, then his back. Once free, Slick moaned Droog's name.

"Diamonds."

There was something about being called by the first part of his title that caught Droog's attention. He was wide awake and consumed with horror. Slick regarded him with confusion, but Droog just stammered apologies and wriggled away. He ignored Slick's frustrated pleas, and put a pillow to his ears in response to Slick's frustrated shouting. The more Slick reached out, the more Droog curled into himself. Eventually, Slick grew tired and gave in, but neither of them slept a wink after that.

 _Well, that was absolutely brilliant,_ Droog thought, scolding himself. _Goddamn moirail of the year you are._

_But... tomorrow is a clean slate. By tomorrow, this never happened._


	13. Slick and Droog's Fabulous Day Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Droog refuses to let that kiss become anything more. In a show of good will, Slick offers to accompany Droog on a shopping trip. They buy new clothes.

He didn't move. He didn't sleep. He just looked and listened. The shapes and shadows turned to unfathomable, unholy phantasms, mixtures of color and lines which lost all definition. The noise grew louder as it grew softer, reverberating within him. Or was it him? It was too far away to tell. How much of the insanity was within his tortured mind? Was reality torn asunder?

Was he starting to dream with his eyes open? Droog didn't cope well without his usual seven to eight hours of sleep. Just as he was about to, well, do nothing really; he was so exhausted he couldn't move a muscle, another noise split the mad clamor in twain like Troll Moges. Deuce's shrill voice, urging Slick to awaken, was unmistakably real.

"Time to get up!" he insisted, banging on the door. "It's been dark for about three hours now. Come on out while it's still night!"  
"Put a sock in it, Deuce," Slick whined. "What are you doing up so soon?"  
"I'm watching cartoons."  
"Cartoons?" Slick sat up. "What kind?"  
"Oh, you know, the one with the lusii that are always getting into trouble."  
"Oh man, I love that show!" Slick tore off the covers and raced out the door. Droog watched him go, fascinated by how refreshed he seemed, despite getting little more sleep than Droog himself. He had grown so accustomed to being sleep-deprived, it was more than a bit worrying. Hopefully, when he inevitably crashed, it would be in a safe location.

"Hey, I can't find Droog," Deuce mentioned as he and Slick made their exit. "Is he in there with you?"  
"Did you, uh, try the bathroom?" Slick suggested in an awkward tone that implied improvisation. Deuce didn't pick up on that.  
"Not yet. Well, he's been in there an awful long time if that's the case. Do you think he's okay?"  
"Oh yeah, he's probably applying his mascara. You gotta get that shit just right."

The rest of their conversation faded into the night as they walked off. Droog cautiously rose and peeked out the door. The others were out of sight. With the elegance of a Thinkpan Eater, he staggered into the hall.

_I owe you one, Slick. Whether that's one favor or one punch in the face, I'm not sure._

The kitchen was almost cleaned up already, another sign of just how long they had spent lounging in bed. Boxcars usually took his time washing dishes and putting away ingredients. He greeted Droog with a jovial grin and slap on the back.

"'Bout time. Deuce said you were on the crapper. I was startin' to fear you'd fallen in," he joked.  
"No, I was putting on mascara," Droog answered drowsily. He clutched his forehead. "Wait, fuck, that's not right-"  
"Never mind. You look like hell," Boxcars chided. "Let's get some breakfast in ya."  
"A cup of coffee is enough, thank you."  
"Have a piece of toast, at least," Boxcars insisted, shoving a plateful his way. "I bought some really nice jam for it."  
Droog took a good look at the golden brown slices, covered some thick, viscous substance. At first they appeared to be lemon and strawberry flavored. Droog closely inspected them, leaning over for a sniff. His nostrils contorted.  
"This isn't jam."  
"No?"  
"Not even close."  
Boxcars stared at the plate in disappointment. "Well, damn."  
Droog excused himself to get his coffee. As Boxcars started scraping the last of the toast into the garbage, Slick skidded into the room, a half-eaten piece of toast hanging from his teeth.  
"Thought you were watchin' cartoons."  
"Reruns," he answered. "Wha' are you doin'?" he asked with his mouth full and nodded towards the trash. "Dese weh grea'. Droog, di' you try any?"  
Droog just stared, then turned with a small shudder.  
"Oops! Sorry, Boss," Boxcars put the toast back on the table, and Slick dug in. "I, uh, messed up the recipe a bit. Figured I should just start fresh."  
"Nonfenf!" Slick waved his hand and shoved another piece in his mouth. After swallowing, he demanded: "Boxcars, can you give us a minute alone?"  
"I would, but there are still dishes ta be washed."  
"So what? I'll do 'em."  
"Yer dish washing involves breaking half of them on the floor when you can't get a stain off."  
"Look, are you gonna make yourself scarce or not?" Slick folded his arms impatiently.  
"I don't see why you two can't scram instead."  
"Fine. Maybe we will," Slick retorted, picking up the plate of toast. "And I'm taking this with me."  
"Oh, no you don't," Boxcars pulled the plate from his hand and set it back down. "Yer not trackin' crumbs through the hideout again. Yer stayin' right here." He left, presumably to join Deuce in watching television. Slick jerked his chin up, smiling triumphantly.

"Dare I ask what this is about?" Droog took a deep breath. He feared he already knew the answer. Slick didn't respond, but offered a piece of toast. Whether he was stalling or genuinely liked the culinary abomination, Droog wasn't sure. Either way, he wouldn't mind stalling a bit as well, so he accepted. The bread itself was perfect, but its topping bore an offensive salty flavor.  
"I don't know how you can eat this," Droog commented, choking it down. "Considering your out-of-control sweet tooth."  
"I have other tastes too, I'll have you know," Slick glowered at him indignantly.  
"Just giving you grief."  
"Yeah, that's your specialty, ain't it?" Slick muttered under his breath.  
"I heard that."  
"Good. Can't have any of ya losing your hearing on me."  
Droog looked upward and issued a mouthed prayer for patience. He waited expectantly for Slick to continue the conversation, but the man was oddly silent. Droog resumed drinking his coffee, pushing the breakfast away in the process. Slick was looking at him. That much he could tell. He couldn't prove it, but he suspected Slick was sizing him up for some reason. He drummed the side of his coffee cup.  
"You wanted me alone," he reminded. "You got me. Now what are you planning?"  
Slick scooted his chair closer. Droog sat up straight as an arrow.  
"Why don't we pick up where we left off?" Slick purred, running his finger along Droog's thigh. Droog picked up Slick's wrist between his thumb and forefinger as though it repulsed him and relocated it.  
"Yes, let's," Droog answered with a surprising calm. "Specifically, let's pick up at the part where nothing happened."  
"C'mon, aren't you a little curious?" Slick, undeterred, tried rubbing the back of Droog's neck.  
"I've already seen you naked."  
"But I haven't seen you naked."  
"Really? Well that's your problem," Droog mocked. "You obviously haven't been trying hard enough."  
"What do you think I'm doing now?" Slick murmured into the other's ear. Droog grumbled and gently shoved Slick's face away.  
"Right, playtime's over. This isn't happening."  
"Gimme one good reason why," Slick demanded, now rubbing a spot between Droog's shoulder blades. That got a shiver out of him, and Slick looked satisfied with himself.  
"I've got two. One, I feel- ah!- like death warmed over. And two, because it's- hhh- not what moirails do," he frowned. "Don't give me that look. I-I'm ticklish."  
"Riiiight, right," Slick flashed a predatory grin. "But what if we weren’t moirails?" he stopped, looking embarrassed. "Not that I want to break up with you-" Droog laid his head on the table while Slick figured out what he meant to say. "I guess you could say I'm being... Purely Hypothetical."  
Droog tensed up. _He knew. Oh Godhead oh God oh God he figured it out. What now? Okay, first, don't lift your head. Maybe if you ignore the problem it will go away._  
"Hey, get up, I'm not done yet," Slick pushed on Droog's shoulder. Droog shook him off, using a bit more force than he intended. Slick crashed to the floor, not yet caffeinated enough to flip his sprite so that his arm could break his fall. Droog ignored his conscience's command to stay still and turned to check on Slick. Slick sat on the floor, glaring. He was okay.

The door burst open and Boxcars stomped into the room.  
"What just happened in here?" he bellowed, his fearsome tone tinged with a bit of worry. "I heard a thud."  
"My fault," Slick piped up. "Leaned over in my seat too far."  
"Oh. Yeah. Ya gotta watch out fer that."  
The lie was less about Slick not wanting to be accusatory towards Droog, and more about him not wanting to have to explain why Droog shoved him in the first place. Since Slick was fine and nothing was the matter, Boxcars started to leave. But then, he had a hunch. He turned to see Droog sitting back down again, head on the table. Slick was creeping towards him, to which he paid no mind. He marched right over- and Slick pulled back- and clamped a large hand on Droog's shoulder.  
"Whatsa matter, pal?" he asked, trying to be quiet in case the beleaguered Dersite was suffering a hangover. "Did someone switch out yer coffee fer decaf?"  
Droog wearily lifted his head. He gave Boxcars the biggest eyes he could manage. Concentrating with all his might, he tried to send the psychic message of "Please get me out of this. Don't leave me alone with him."  
"Whoa! Yer not lookin' so good!" Boxcars commented. "You should relax more, have a drink, read the newspaper."  
"Yeah, 'newspaper'," Slick snickered.  
"Maybe step out fer a bit and get some moons."  
Droog put his hands up to silence them. "I appreciate the concern, but all I need is some time alone and some peace and quiet."  
"Speakin' a which, did you two do whatever you needed to do yet?"  
Slick's answer consisted of narrowing his eyes, crossing his arms, and looking in Droog's direction. "Let's just say a certain someone wasn't up for it."  
"Well, maybe you'll feel better enough for it later," Boxcars said. His tone and body language suggested obliviousness, so for that Droog was grateful. He hoped that it didn't inadvertently encourage Slick. Come to think of, it was more infuriating that way, because he couldn't very well beat the daylights out of Boxcars in that case.  
"Yeah, it's been a real disappointment," Slick added. "I've heard the stories about you, Droog, but I guess that's all they were," He meant it jokingly, which would have been obvious except that Droog was in no mood. His head snapped up, eyes squinting dangerously and mouth curled into a faint snarl. Slick instinctively moved away and started backpedaling. Even Boxcars looked worried, standing aside, but ready to jump in at a moment's notice. Droog grabbed Slick by his collar and slammed him against the wall.

"How dare you?" he hissed, his voice low yet clear. Slick struggled a bit, trying to reach for a knife in his pocket. Droog shoved him again, this time with more force. This rattled him a bit, giving Droog the chance to talk. He continued speaking in hushed tones, growling into Slick's ear to keep their liaison secret from Boxcars. "You're going to sit there and accuse me not only of promiscuity, but of treating you like a conquest?" Slick rapidly shook his head but Droog paid him no mind. "How dare you suggest that we pervert the sanctity of our moirallegiance with tawdry, casual sex?" Slick kicked him in the knee. Droog just frowned.  
"You started it," Slick spat. Droog let go with one hand and pulled it back, palm raised. Boxcars grabbed his arm and wrenched him away. Slick collapsed to the ground. He picked himself up and pounced at Droog, but Boxcars blocked him and kept him away.  
"Now just what the hell is going on?" Boxcars demanded. He gave them each a light slap upside the head. "Now, I know it's a little early fer ya, but that doesn't excuse this behavior," After being chastised, Slick hung his head, and Droog loosened up. Although he looked relaxed on the outside, his mind was now even more stressed.

_You just attacked your moirail. You were going to hurt him, badly. Not even his pacifying influence could stop you._

"...happened so don’t worry about it" Slick finished up. While Droog had been engaged in his reverie, Slick and Boxcars had abandoned all memories of what just happened and started up a conversation. They turned to Droog once they saw that he had returned to Alternia.  
"Droog," Boxcars waved at him. "Hey, buddy! You in there?"  
He struggled to formulate an answer, so he elected to sit on the floor and hide his face in his hands.

"I know what'll make you feel better" Slick exclaimed, index finger raised determinedly. "Shopping!" The other two slowly looked at him like he just suggested something insane, like joining the Felt, or sunbathing, or shopping. There was a pause, then Droog sighed and spoke softly:  
"You know, most of my jackets are pretty worn out."  
"Hold up, I was thinkin' of guns-"  
"Weren't you talking about buying a new pair of shoes a while back?" Boxcars reminded him. Slick rubbed his eyes.  
"Shoes? Oh no-"  
"Oh, of course, I could never forget about them," Droog clasped his hands together, already invigorated by the mere thought. "That had been wishful thinking, but I suppose I could afford a new pair or two or three or fifty."  
"Slick, yer brilliant!" Boxcars cheered. This time, its was Slick's turn to lay his head down pitifully. He moaned, digging his claws into his skull.  
"Um... are you okay?" Droog stroked Slick's arm.  
Slick sat up and inhaled through his nostrils. "Fine, just fine."  
"Well, in that case," Droog began, standing up. "I'm going to have one more cup, then I'm heading out." Boxcars nodded and left the room. Slick sat in the chair, tapping his foot. It would have annoyed Droog at any other time, but he was already far too enveloped in his fantastical escapades of footwear purchase. The tapping was akin to a sweet melody, and the scalding coffee he accidentally poured on his hand danced like delicate ballerinas. Perhaps a change in environment would allow him to fully comprehend his predicament. Was their moirallegiance in jeopardy? Or was this a freak occurrence caused by stress and fatigue?  
"I'll go with you," Slick spat out, as though he had to persuade his mouth to form the words before his brain could stop him. There had been some sort of internal debate, it seemed.  
"What part of, 'I need some time alone' did you fail to understand?" Droog asked condescendingly.  
"Sorry," Slick crossed his arms. "But you're always saying you wish I would take an interest in this kinda thing."  
"I know, I know. You're right; I apologize," Droog said with a quiet sigh. "Alright, out with it. First, your suggestion. Now your offer. What exactly are you trying to accomplish here? What's the catch?"  
"The catch?" Slick repeated indignantly. "The catch is that I care about you and want you to be fucking happy ya mistrustful sonuvabitch."  
"Oh..." Droog looked at his feet. "I didn't mean to accuse-"  
Slick laughed heartily. "I'm just havin' fun. Don't worry; I wont try to hit on you again," he then added quietly "Unless you want me to," before continuing. "I meant what I said, but now that I think about it, I could use a few new sets of clothes. My things are pretty worn out, too."  
"'Worn out'?" Droog repeated, feeling at ease again- sufficient for a bit of teasing. "Are you sure you don't mean, 'bursting at the seams'?"  
"N-no" Slick tugged at his shirt impulsively, which hugged his form. "Maybe they've gotten a little snug," he mumbled.  
"A little. Right," Droog responded drolly.  
"Ye-" Droog put up a finger to silence Slick. He wasn't having any of that and shoved the hand away. "What?"  
"The law of comedy dictates that right about now, a button should pop off your shirt or pants."  
They stood still for a second.  
"Droog, you dumbass, I'm not wearing anything with buttons."  
"Damn."  
"You can be an asshole all you want, I'm still going with you."  
"Damn!"  
"Anyways, I can always get better fitting clothes, but you'll never stop looking like a pompous dainty snob who'd look more at home suckin' up to some rich fuckers than bein' in a fearsome bloodthirsty gang!"  
"You take that back!" Droog shouted and ran after him as Slick bounded out the door, cackling. He chased him throughout the hideout, ultimately backing him into a corner. They stood on opposite sides of a chair, each of them attempting to fake out the other.  
"What's the matter, Slick?" he chided. "Getting tired? Or just losing your edge?" In response, Slick switched to the offensive and lunged forward. Next, he chased Droog straight out, scratching at his ankles as they climbed the ladder to the manhole cover.

Droog reached the car first. By the time Slick got there, he was doubled over, panting.  
 _Okay, maybe I'm a little outa shape._  
"That'll do, pig. That'll do." Droog stroked Slick's back. In return, he got a knife in the chest, right between two plates. "I may have deserved that," he admitted, wincing. Slick put the knife between his teeth and summoned the violet flames.  
"Don' do it again" Slick ordered as he closed up the wound. "Nek time I won' heal 'ou  
"Yes, sir."

The first stretch of their journey was replete with peace. The shopping center wasn't quite far away, but the drive was long enough that the silence began to wear on Droog's nerves. He glanced at Slick out of the corner of his eye, who was gazing mindlessly out the window. He was turned, and thus impossible to read from that angle.

Was he giving Droog the silent treatment? If so, it wasn't due to the mean spirited jokes at his expense. Slick had already reacted to them in his typical angry manner. Was he concerned about the attack? Doubtful. He should've been, but Slick didn't realize the extent to which Droog had lost it in that instant. No, this was most likely because of what had transpired the night before. But, was he giving the cold shoulder because Droog showed attraction? Or because he didn't follow through? Hopefully, if it was the latter, Slick would realize why that would be a bad idea, and either way, he would forgive Droog. But as the seconds ticked past into minutes, and Slick remained mute, that seemed less and less likely.

"Saving us!" Slick exclaimed, sitting up suddenly. "That's the name of the song! Oh man, that was gonna drive me crazy."

Forgiven, and forgotten already, apparently.

"Mind if I turn on the radio?" Slick asked, but didn't wait for confirmation. "There's a station I've been listening to lately. I think you'll like it, too," The song playing was jazz, but with a slight bluesy edge to it. He was right, Droog did like it. They let the music fill in the blanks for the rest of the drive. There was one occasion, where another driver blared on his horn at them for no discernible reason, and Slick started rolling down the window, and Droog had to stop him because he didn't know if he wasn't going to issue a rude hand gesture or something worse. Other than that exception, their ride was pleasant, the events from earlier already fading into the shadows.

They arrived at their destination in that ideal time which yielded a plethora of vacant parking spaces, and when the halls were devoid of crowds. Droog led a clueless Slick around, dragging him to one of the anchor stores. He had to pull him away from a candy shop, and had to avert his own eyes from a store specializing in expensive watches. The disgusted faces Slick directed at it made avoidance a little bit easier. He'd return at a later date, when he was accompanied by someone who could handle their phobias of such mundane objects less childishly. Or alone. Alone would work. He gave in when they passed by a store selling cheap, raunchy memorabilia. Droog stayed out, of course. He considered pickpocketing Slick's wallet, but he didn't care to get stabbed again. His chest still smarted a bit. All he could do was wait outside and hope Slick didn't blow all their boondollars on useless junk. Unlike Droog, who could window shop all day, Slick gave most items only a periphery glance. He came out sooner than Droog expected, holding only one useless junk item, and a cheap one at that. In the end, all he purchased was a gag eight ball that gave insulting responses. "Well, duh!" "Are you fucking kidding?" "Why don't you try asking a less stupid question?" "Hahahaha- oh, you were serious."

Shopping for new clothes was next on their agenda. Slick followed Droog's lead. (He followed even closer when he saw familiar figures standing deathly still. He assumed someone had slaughtered a bunch of Prospitians, stuffed and beheaded them, then dressed them in designer clothes. Droog had to explain the concept of mannequins, and asked why Slick was freaking out. Slick pointed over to a tangled mess of fake body parts and admitted that he may have found one with a head, assumed it was alive, tried to talk to it, then shoved it when it wouldn't answer, where it toppled and broke into many pieces. Droog surreptitiously shuffled them both away from the scene of the crime.) 

Droog assisted Slick with finding decent clothes first, taking pity on the poor man's fashion deficiency. Fashion deficiency, by the way, was totally a thing that existed, not something Droog just pulled out of his ass for the sake of lording it over his boss. Nope. As soon as he was confident that Slick had a decent sample of clothes to choose from, he went on a little shopping spree for himself.

Slick surveyed the rack, taking note of the pants sizes available. Most of his old pairs were a struggle to get on, let alone zip up. He grimaced and grabbed the next size. To his dismay, he found that, once fastened, they still dug sharply into his expanding waistline. He dumped the ill-fitting pants onto the rejected clothing rack, not caring that they weren't properly hung. Not that he would in any case. One more size up, then. The next pair did technically fit, but they were a bit on the tight side and hindered efficient maneuverability. With a heavy sigh, he brought yet another pair into the fitting room. One more size up. After that, he would just get a damn poncho and wear that everywhere. The last pair fit, sparing Droog's delicate senses. Slick picked up an armful of pairs of the same size, then grabbed a couple larger pairs. If he didn't figure out how to backtrack from his current path, he'd be needing them, he reasoned. He went through the shirts and jackets next, with considerably less difficulty. The only thing left to do was wait for Droog to finish.

An hour and two stolen novellas later, Slick banged on Droog's door in the fitting room.  
"Are you almost done?" he asked irascibly. "I'm bored outa my mind!"  
"Calm yourself. You can't rush good taste," Droog replied.  
"Ugggghhhh," Slick resorted to slamming his forehead against the door.  
"Why don't you try exploring the shopping center? You might find a store you like," Droog suggested, slipping him some cash. "If you get lost, there are maps here and there."  
Slick agreed to the proposition. He bought his new clothes and ran off. The sheer amount of choices awaiting him were staggering, so he located one of the maps first. From there, he planned his route. _Candy shop first. No. Candy shop last. Don't want it to get all melty. Music store first. Whoa, hold up, they have a pet store?_ During his time alone, he didn't buy a single thing. He spent the entirety of his free time cooing over the infant barkbeasts. He was so distracted, he lost track of time. Droog actually had come get him, rather than the other way around.

"Hold these, pack mule," Droog commanded, shoving a surfeit of shopping bags in Slick's direction. Slick grabbed a few with his one arm, letting the rest fall.  
"I can only hold so many, you doofus."  
"Oh. Right," Droog bent down to pick up the bags, feeling stupid, and hoping his feelings of stupidity weren't showing. They walked away from the pet store, Droog in the lead, Slick pitifully waving good-bye.  
"I don't see why I should carry any of these" Slick complained, trudging along. "It's mostly your stuff"  
"Because if you help me, I'll buy you ice cream."  
"Deal." Almost immediately, there was a skip in his step. "Where to next?"  
"Shoes."  
"Awwwwww." And the trudging returned. "Can I go back to the beasts while you're getting new kicks?"  
"I wouldn't advise it," Droog answered as they made their way inside the store. "I know exactly what I want, so it shouldn't take long." While that statement was entirely truthful, Droog had failed to take into account the fact that there were, as there always were, shoes (and hats and others accessories) that he didn't know he wanted until he saw them firsthand. Slick wandered off again. He ruefully admitted that he didn't have enough cash to buy a barkbeast, and they all looked sickly, anyway. The music store caught his eye again. He went there for a few new records. It was a fair distance from the shoe store, so he returned to Droog immediately after. On the way back, he considered how much walking was involved in shopping, to say nothing of the burdens. No wonder Droog had such a trim figure. _Such a nice, trim, shapely- oh there's the shoe store._

Droog was still browsing the racks, but he confirmed that he was nearly done. Slick amused himself in the meantime by creating a fort out of shoe boxes. When it was time to go, he was having too much fun. Droog neatly dismantled the fort with a well-aimed wallet.

"Can we go to the food court already?" Slick begged. He tried to carry as many boxes and bags as possible, thinking that would curry the other man's favor, thus making him more inclined to do Slick's bidding.  
"Ew. No," Droog shuddered.  
"But you promised!" Slick whined. "Hey, I'm the boss and I say we go to the food court."  
"Good luck finding it," Droog chuckled. Slick's shoulders slumped in defeat. "I promised you ice cream. We're going somewhere that's actually good to get it."  
"Now you're talkin'!" Slick beamed, following Droog outside. "Hold up- you're not taking me to one of your shitty Droog Chow places, are ya?"  
"No, this is restaurant is classic. Even your fussy self should be able to find something," Droog reassured with a sigh. "And it's called 'health food', not 'Droog Chow'."

They placed their new belongings in the car and drove to the restaurant. It clearly wasn't one the kitschy establishments with mascots and silly names for food Slick was used to, but nor was it some exclusive joint that insisted on putting on airs. The inside was slightly dimmed, but not quite enough to encourage romantic behavior. There were a few taxidermied lusus heads gracing the walls, of which Droog was not fond. Other than that, the decor was tasteful. Attractive, without being distracting. The maître d' lead them to a booth with wooden seats and high backs. He took their drink orders (white wine for Droog, Faygo for Slick) and left. Slick was very interested in his surroundings. Droog humored him for a while. Then Slick stood on the seat to get a good look at the baked alaska across the room, and Droog yanked him down.

"What does 'alaska' mean, anyway?"  
"I don't know."

After that, they perused the menu. The waitress came by shortly after.  
"Damn fast service," Slick commented, but in a slightly aggravated tone. He was still looking. Droog nodded his approval, ignoring Slick's backhanded compliment.  
"What'll you gentlemen have?" the waitress asked, pen and paper at the ready. Droog ordered a dish of poultry with vegetables on the side. "And what would you like?"  
"Um, guess I'll have the Troll Caegar salad." Droog raised an eyebrow.  
"Alright, it'll be out very soon," she spun on her heels and walked away.  
"Ahem."  
"What?"  
"A salad, really?"  
"Salads are healthy, right?" Slick mumbled, unsure.  
"Yes, but you need more than that!" Droog said. "High-ranking Dersites like us need meat."  
"Yeah well, maybe I wanted a salad," Slick crossed his arms.  
"Somehow I doubt that. Look, if you want to diet, just ask me for help, for crying out loud," He put up his hands. "Sorry, it's your business; you get whatever you want. I just hoped that maybe this would be a place we could agree on in the future, and I don't want to see you turned off of it because you ordered something you don't really like."

The waitress returned with the food, which came in generous portions. Slick mentally gave the restaurant a point for not being stingy like most of Droog's favorite haunts. He clutched a fork and was about to start shoveling it in, but then he stopped to watch Droog. He picked up his knife and fork and began carving the meat smoothly, yet efficiently. Slick observed him diligently and tried to match his pace. He was so intent on copying Droog that casual conversation never crossed his mind. Droog had to initiate it, and whenever he did, Slick stopped eating. He started to pick up on Slick's odd behavior, but wasn't entirely certain what he was doing. Then, when he was finished, he put his utensils down- and Slick did likewise. At that point, Droog figured him out. He knew Slick hadn't had enough, but he couldn't exactly order him to clean his plate like a wriggler.

 _It wouldn't hurt to have a little bit more_ , he decided. He resumed eating, and as he anticipated, Slick did as well. Droog was starting to fill up more than he would have liked, but fortunately for him, Slick seemed to actually enjoy his salad. It got to the point where he was consuming it without any regards to how Droog was consuming his meal. Finally, Droog felt it was safe to push away his own plate and not worry about Slick. He leaned back against the seat, rested his hands on his sated belly, and waited for Slick. Slick pointed to Droog's unfinished plate.  
"Had enough?"  
"Ooh, yeah. I can't eat another bite," Droog admitted.  
"Mind if I-" Slick pointed again.  
"Go right ahead," Droog smiled, happy that Slick's appetite had not vanished entirely. Slick pulled Droog's plate next to his and polished them both off.  
"Man, that salad was okay and all, y'know, for a salad," Slick said, sighing contentedly. "But yours was way better. I need to get that next time."

Shortly after they finished, the waitress returned with a dessert cart. Droog's face fell. He had completely forgotten his promise, and now he wasn't sure either of them were up for it. Still, Slick was eying the cart somewhat ravenously as the waitress listed off its contents.  
"So, know what you want?" she asked.  
"Got anything low fat or low calorie?" Slick muttered. Droog very nearly smacked his own forehead.  
"He'll have the brownie sundae," Droog ordered for him, knowing Slick would enjoy that more than any other choice.  
"What the hell?" Slick hissed.  
"Trust me. It's okay to splurge every once in a while," Slick still looked bothered, compelling Droog to choose a dessert for himself. The key lime pie slice looked small. Surely he could find room for that.

The desserts were exquisite. The pie was light and creamy, with the perfect ratio of sweet to tart, and it went down easily. Although he was quite full, Droog was grateful that it didn't make him miserable. He didn't know for a fact if the sundae was as good, but judging by how slowly and pointedly Slick was devouring it, he had a hunch that it was pretty good, too.

Droog spotted someone unmistakably green up ahead.  
"Felt at six o'clock," he whispered.  
"Which one?" Slick asked, nearly choking. Droog peered and made out a hint of blue.  
"It's just Doze."  
"Oh, that's a relief."  
"No, wait. Itchy's with him."  
"Aw, sonuvacrap," Slick tried to hide.  
"Slick, get up. I seriously doubt the two of them will try to attack us by themselves," Droog pointed out.  
"That's not the problem," Slick said, chewing his lip nervously. _Please, please, please let them stay away_ \- Itchy spotted them out of the corner of his eye and trotted over, his partner following reluctantly- _Dammit._  
"Fancy meeting you two here!" Itchy greeted, looking far more delighted than he had any business being. Doze nodded hello.  
"Good evening," Droog tersely replied. Slick just grumbled and turned away, his chin in his hand.  
They exchanged pleasantries, with Droog and Itchy contributing the most. Doze was the one to finally address the elephant in the room.  
"Is that a fat joke?"  
"You're a fat joke."  
Hey! Hey! No breaking the fourth wall. Now where were we?  
"An arm and an eye?" Doze said. "How is that working out for you?"  
"Not so great," Slick was more willing to converse with the less domineering of the two Felt. "I have to relearn everything. It's such bullshit."  
"The past few months haven't been kind to us," Droog added.  
"Oh, but it hasn't been a- _total loss_ ," Itchy offered with a grin. It happened too fast to prove, but Slick was certain Itchy reached down and pinched his side. He scowled.  
"Are you itching to get beat?" he threatened. "Wait, I mean beat up, not beat off."  
"Oh my godhead, you are so cute!" Itchy laughed. "Droog, you are one lucky fella. I always say-" he put a hand on the small of Doze's back. "-once you've been with a chubby guy- yes?" Slick had beckoned him closer, and he obeyed. In one swift motion, Slick slammed Itchy's head into the half-eaten dessert. He then slid out of the booth and stomped out the door. "Was it something I said?"

Droog closed his eyes and counted. While Itchy wiped the ice cream off his face and shirt collar, Droog pulled out a wallet. He did some mental mathematics, threw some cash on the table, and started to leave. Moving was more difficult than it should have been, thanks to his overly full stomach weighing him down. He cursed Slick for making him chase after him. As Droog got up, Doze held up his palm to him. Droog politely did not leave him hanging, then continued on his way.

"Well, that was rude," Doze huffed.  
"Tell me about it!" Itchy agreed. "I was just giving a compliment!"  
"Not Slick, you!" Doze snapped. "We go on a date and you start flirting?"  
"I wasn't-" Itchy protested. "Oh. Oh, I guess I was."  
"Think you could _try_ to focus on _us_ for one day?"  
"Oh babe, of course!" Itchy took Doze's hands in his. "I am so sorry, I promise not to get distracted again."  
Doze looked him in the eyes with a stony expression, then gave a little smirk.  
"That's enough, Itchy. Let's get you cleaned up."

In the meanwhile, Droog caught up to Slick outside.  
"Well, that was rude," he gritted his teeth.  
"Tell me about it!" Slick agreed. "He has no business commenting on a man's physique."  
"Not Itchy, you!" Droog snapped. "I buy you this gourmet dessert and you waste half of it?"  
"Oh shit, I didn't even think of like it," Slick winced. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be a dick."  
"Ah, don't worry about it," Droog softened up.  
"Hell, if I finished, I'd probably go up another size. We'd need to go shopping again" Droog stopped in his tracks. "Don't get any bright ideas."  
"Let's just get out of here before they realize I paid with a bunch of fakes."

On the drive back to the hideout, Slick resorted to staring out the window once again. This time, however, his body language- namely, drumming his fingers on the armrest- indicated something slightly more distressing on his mind.  
"Out with it."  
"Can you be candid?"  
"I'm always candid. Unless we're discussing legal issues, of course."  
"Good," Slick paused for a second, then continued awkwardly. "Am I really that fat?"  
Droog had to suppress a laugh. "Do you realize what you just asked? No, really. Think about it for a second." They both did, and it dawned on them that their night had consisted of such activities as shopping for shoes, fawning over adorable creatures, and eating ice cream.  
"Heh, I guess we can pretty much hand in our man cards."  
"Speak for yourself."  
"Oh, is that so, ya delicate flower?" Slick retorted. "And just how are you more manly than me, Mister Can't Leave The Hideout Without Matching Socks?"  
"You misunderstand," Droog stopped him. "I forfeited my man card long ago. Simply put, I realized that if some fool tries to devalue me based on how well I adhere to gender stereotypes, there are more satisfying methods of silencing them."  
"Hahaha, I hear that," Slick playfully punched him in the arm. "Er, you are talking about murder, right?"  
"Nothing escapes you."  
"Hey, shut the fuck up. You coulda been talkin' bribery or extortion."  
"Right. So, back to what you were saying. Are you fat?" Droog took a deep breath. "Not compared to-"  
"I swear to godhead, if you say 'not compared to Sawbuck'-"  
"Not compared to Doze," Droog completed the sentence.  
"Okay, that's not so bad."  
"Why is this concerning you above all else?" Droog followed up. "More than even your missing body parts?"  
"I dunno. I am pissed off about those things, but I guess 'cause I know I can't get them back, there's no point dwelling on it," Slick said in a rambling kind of way. In doing so, he was getting his thoughts placed in a coherent order; answering himself as much as Droog.  
"I see. Well, don't worry too much. Things have been so different lately. You'll be back to your old, skinny self in no time," The slightest scowl graced Droog's features.  
"Not with Mister Has To Cook Enough Food To Feed An Army always around," Slick rolled his eyes. "Not that you've been much help either. What's your deal?"  
"You still want candor?"  
"Damn right I do."  
Droog drummed the steering wheel. "I have been reluctant to help you lose weight, because I'm afraid you'll overdo it."  
"Gimme a break! I would not."  
"Can you look me in the eyes and swear that?" Droog pleaded.  
"Putting aside the fact that you're fucking driving-" Slick watched as Droog gripped the wheel tighter. "Jegus, this is really bothering you, huh?"  
"Spades, how much of our exile do you remember?"  
"What? Uh, most of it, but it gets kinda hazy at the end."  
"That's because you weren't well," Droog quietly reminded him. "You pushed yourself too far, and gave too much of yourself to keep the rest of us going. You started wasting away. I seriously thought we would- I would..." Droog swallowed. "When the Poetic Insurgent fell ill, and his demise was a given, that was hard enough. But the idea of losing two romantic partners in one fell swoop..."  
Slick reached over and somberly gripped Droog's shoulder.  
"So, you'll excuse me, I hope, for not caring if you pack on the pounds," Droog finished, sounding weary. "It beats the alternative."

They didn't speak for the following portion of the journey, but enjoyed each other's company nonetheless. Suddenly, Droog's expression changed for the better.  
"Hey, I know just what we need!" he exclaimed. "A heist!"  
"It has been a while," Slick gave Droog's suggestion some consideration. "You know, that does sound like fun."  
"Shall we begin planning when we get back or would you like to wait until a later date?"  
"Fuck no, I ain't waiting."  
"Very well," Droog increased his speed. He could tell that Slick was already anxious to return, the gears in his brain working overtime.


	14. The Chase... Is On!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a brief police chase, Slick kills himself and Droog so that they can converse with certain people in the afterlife. Slick asks Death what the deal with his nightmares is. Droog says goodbye to his former matesprit, Pickle Inspector, who died shortly after the founding of the Midnight City.

It was a straight shot back to the Midnight Crew's hideout. The road was flat and traffic was sparse. Flora merely dotted the roadside, completely overshadowed by the mountainous region to the left and the settling city to the right. The glow of the Pink Moon dominated the landscape that night, with the Green Moon seeming to challenge its position. It was the kind of night which made it very easy to forget that one was behind the wheel of an automobile.

Slick had turned the radio on, once again to the station he had recently discovered. Droog soon found himself lost in a morose medley forged by saxophone, accordion, and bass. The song ended prematurely, cut off by some abrasive jingle and blithering morons. That jolted Droog back into awareness. For a moment, he wondered if he possessed psychic powers and if he could use them for evil, but then he noticed the fuel gauge. Hyperbolic vengeance would have to wait. It was time to gas up.

The cheapest gas station was a little out of their way, but not by much. They arrived without having to push their car there. Droog pulled up to a pump. As he started to open the door, Slick suddenly recalled and revealed that they were out of beer. It was decided that Slick would stay outside to pump gas, and Droog would go inside to restock. This arrangement served two purposes: to keep Slick from buying more candy and junk food, and to allow Droog to buy another pack of smokes. Inside the store, Droog wondered if he was being hypocritical for not letting Slick indulge in his vices, while simultaneously indulging in his own. But then the caricature of a humpbeast on the cigarette pack called him a square, so naturally he had to crush it in his hand. Ain't no one talks to Diamonds Droog like that. Some hapless carapace asked Droog if he was okay, and got a sucker-punch for his troubles. Some other hapless carapace tried to subdue him, and... Long story short, the cigarettes were never paid for, Slick drove like a bat out of hell while Droog nursed a busted lip in the passenger seat, and Droog was forbidden from entering that establishment ever again.

"Ya didn't kill any of 'em, did ya?" Slick began the conversation delicately, not wanting to get under Droog's skin while operating a fast-moving vehicle. He also waited until Droog had procured a cigarette- fortunately, they had not all been too damaged. Droog shook his head and exhaled.  
"Wanted to, that's for damn sure," he laughed bitterly. "Wanted to wipe those smug looks right off those goody two-shoes."  
"Can't say I'm not proud of you," Slick admitted, gritting his teeth. "You showed considerable restraint. Li'l disappointed at the same time, though."  
"I should have wasted the lot of them," muttered Droog. "Then we wouldn't be driving for our lives."  
"Ah, forget about that!" Slick spied a police car in the rear-view mirror. "What's a night out without a little bit of pulse-pounding action to put the fear a' Godhead in ya?" he grabbed the handbrake and drifted around a corner into an alley. Trash cans clattered off the windshield and small critters scurried away in a panic. Droog instinctively flinched at the random debris, but Slick just cackled gleefully. When they got back on the road proper, they found that the cops had stayed behind, presumably not wanting risk injuring any life or damaging property. Slick just laughed harder when he realized.  
"Betcha anything they were a buncha damned Prospitians," Slick guessed. "Lousy cowards ain't even gonna give me a decent chase. Too worried about reckless endangerment," he spoke the last two words in a mocking tone, his tongue lolling out of his mouth to complete the image.  
"Remind me to vote for one of them next election."  
"What, why?" Slick asked, confused. "Oh, I get it. Good thinking." It was always easier to run the town when a Prospitian thought he or she was in charge, the Crew had concluded. That is, as long as said Prospitian was not in the business of mail delivery.  
"Tellin' ya, Droog ol' pal, we're livin' the good life," Slick relaxed and eased off the accelerator. Droog gave an unintelligible hum to show his agreement. Slick went on.  
"Nightclubs 'round every corner. Booze always at our finger tips. Dames for Boxcars. Fellas for you. Both 'em for me, heh. And uh..."  
"Clowns with balloons animals for Deuce?" Droog offered.  
"Ha! Yeah," Slick sighed. "Alternia is ours. It is good bein' at the top."  
"Actually, someone else is over the top of us at the moment," Droog leaned forward and craned his neck, getting a good look out the windshield.  
"What, like a dragon or something? I didn't think they were indigenous to-" Droog shushed him.  
"Looks like the cops have sent for reinforcements."

Slick rolled down his window, and grinned as he was greeted by the beating sound of helicopter blades.  
"So that's how we're gonna play" he murmured in a low voice. "Just the way I like," he stuck his head out the window. "Come and get us, coppers! If you're not too scared!"  
In a mere span of a few seconds, a bevy of law enforcement vehicles were barreling down on them, seeming to come from out of every possible nook and crevice.  
"Oh, fuck."  
"Slick, watch the road!"  
He had started to veer off to the left. As he corrected his position, a car zoomed up and rammed against them from the right.  
"Road?" Slick began, deviousness slowly permeating his voice. "Where we're goin'..." he trailed off and jerked the wheel hard to the left. Their car went up on two wheels and Droog hiccuped violently.  
"Watch it," he groaned, digging his claws into the armrest.  
"Sorry, butterfly!" Slick sped through the desert, unconcerned about all the dips and rocks he ran over. Droog grimaced as they went over an uncomfortably large jump and felt his stomach fall. He reached his hands over slowly, either to take the wheel or strangle Slick, he hadn't decided. But Slick spoke first, prompting him to stop.  
"Why don'tcha make yourself useful an' shoot these shitheads?" he ordered. "It'll take your mind off the carsickness."  
"You could always try not aiming for every single hazard you see," Droog countered, but pulled out a handgun and fired nonetheless. He shot out a few tires, then managed to put a cap in the skull of one of the drivers. They slumped over the wheel and careened into a ditch. Feeling more in his element, Droog let out a triumphant laugh and aimed for another cop. He missed the driver and hit the passenger.  
"Son of a bitch!"  
"What now?"  
Said driver proceeded to freak the fuck out as his fellow officer flopped lifelessly onto the dash. The Luckless Rookie unwisely turned one hundred percent of his attention to the corpse and zero percent on where he was headed. He made Droog's job a whole lot easier and took out a couple more cars in the process.  
"...Well, never mind."

The police cars on land more or less gave up pursuit at that point, turning their attention to their dead and wounded. All that remained was the helicopter. Droog lined up a shot at the pilot. Only one problem remained.  
"Boss, when I say go, you gun it, got it?"  
"Okay," Slick started apprehensively. He gazed ahead at the increase in bumps in the terrain, "But-"  
"Got it?" Droog repeated, louder.  
"Got it."  
First, Droog pulled the trigger. Second, he shouted for Slick to go. Third, Slick slammed on the gas, throwing both of them back against their seats. Fourth, the helicopter crashed to the ground almost exactly where the car had been. Slick kept speeding, waiting for a cue from Droog to stop the car. Droog was a little preoccupied. Each jolt from the drive sent his gut churning, and it didn't look like Mother Alternia was a merciful deity. The flat expanse gradually evolved into one with more personality. Bizarre rock formations popped up all around them, and Slick alternated between driving straight over them when he could, and swerving around them when he had to. Not that either option helped Droog's predicament.

_I must not vomit. Vomit is the suit killer._

"Hang on tight," Slick commanded. "I see an alcove up ahead," he pushed the accelerator to the floor and took off up a slightly steep hill. One of the larger rocks had a small niche carved out of the inside, perfect for a car their size. He parked the car there for a moment so they could take a breather.  
"You gonna be sick? 'Cause I can hold your tie," Slick generously offered. Droog put up his hands to decline. He was afraid to open his mouth to say no. But if he could rest, he would be fine. He took some deep breaths, and that alone worked wonders.

The two men caught each other's eyes. Broad grins spread across their faces, and they spent the next few minutes cheering and high-fiving one another. After they settled down, the next course of action was figuring out how to get home. The area they came from was liable to be surrounded for a while. They would have to enter the city via some less-traveled road. Slick edged the car out, and once he was certain the coast was clear, he took off. He drove more casually since their lives weren't in jeopardy, and Droog was thankful on all accounts. He took a moment to appreciate the scenery and gave a wistful sigh. Slick didn't ask what was on Droog's mind. That sort of introspective, prying talk was reserved for broads and feelings jams. He also didn't need to ask. The area was one they both knew all too well. They had trudged through it, climbed over it, trying, often in vain, to find refuge from the sun. It was their last stop in exile.

It was the location where the Heretical Drifter and the Prodigal Shepherd had their ultimate fight. The Shepherd had stormed off, over a hill, where no one could see him. He stayed alone, for an awfully long time. The others began to have suspicions. The Drifter was the only one to hear his desperate cries for help. When she dashed off to aid him, nobody could understand what she was thinking. Despite constantly prepping themselves for the nigh-inevitable, somehow, none of them were quite prepared for the sight which approached them.

The Shepherd walked to the campsite, carrying the Drifter in his arms. According to his side of the story, a lusus had attacked, and she gave her life to kill it and save him. When the Midnight City was formed, she was given the posthumous title of "Hysterical Dame." The Shepherd, or Problem Sleuth, rarely left his home in the days that followed.

After that, they would pass over the approximate spot where the Insurgent started having problems, problems which led to his suffering. He had lived to see the City's creation, but never got the chance to fully appreciate it. Droog almost never spoke of him, which Slick found peculiar. He didn't expect him to gush about the man or sob into his pillow over him. But he went beyond that. It was like PI wasn't just dead, but he never existed to begin with. Even Slick knew better than to have that kind of attitude, but he couldn't force Droog to confront the issue. Or could he?

Before they arrived at the lamentable campsite, Slick turned the wheel sharply and started driving up a large hill.  
"Where are you headed?"  
"Detour," Slick lied simply. Droog nodded and laid back in his seat. He assumed Slick had a card up his sleeve, but he choose to ignore those thoughts. Instead, he focused on the pleasant drive- the path, although inclined, was without disturbances in the terrain. For a short while he relaxed. Then he noticed something off about the approaching horizon.  
"You might want to turn now," Droog urged. Slick just picked up speed as he took them to the edge of a steep cliff. "Oh God, what are you doing?"  
"I told you," Slick repeated with a wild grin. "Detour."  
Droog tugged Slick's arm, only to get bit for his troubles. He jerked back in pain and Slick corrected his path of doom. They teetered over the edge. There was no turning back. Thoughts raced through Droog's mind at an incredible velocity. Had Slick's issues gotten worse? How had he been so clueless? If he had suppressed his flushed feelings and focused on the pale, could he have prevented this?  
"Oh no, not like this," Droog wailed. "I was supposed to leave a beautiful corpse!"  
"Cross your fingers."  
"For what purpose?"  
"That we don't die before we hit the bottom," Slick gave him a curious wink. The car plummeted. Droog, horrified, watched the land approaching below and heaved. He held his stomach with one hand and his mouth with the other.  
"I'm gonna be sick."

Diamonds Droog and Spades Slick stood in front of a door. It was obviously a very important door. Slick banged his fist on it and demanded entry. He barged right in after it was opened, and Droog followed warily. A familiar, black-robed figure stood by, clutching some part his face (which was obscured by a black hood) with two skeletal fingers.  
"Slick," Droog said, his voice almost qualifying as a whimper. "Please tell me we're not where I think we are."  
"We're just visiting," he shrugged him off with a hiss-like whisper and walked determinedly over to Death.  
"I don't understand," Droog trailed off, and was interrupted by Death's aggravated sigh.  
"You again?" he scolded Slick. "I thought I told you I didn't want to see you here for a long time," He glanced in Droog's direction, and if skeletons had eyebrows, he'd be raising his. "Droog? The Diamonds Droog? The man who avoids violence if it means getting his suit too dirty? And just what are _you_ doing here?"  
"I'd like to know that, myself."  
"We all done gawking here?" Slick tapped his foot. "I got a bone to pick with you, Death. No pun intended."  
"Really? Because that one actually wasn't half bad," Death told him with a chuckle.  
"You think so?" Slick shook his head. "Oh, speaking of gawking, is the Inspector around anywhere?"  
"Why, yes!" Death looked bewildered and so did Droog. "He was about to meet me for tea." He held a finger in the air, a violet flame emanating from it like a candlestick. "I'll just go ahead and summon him" He wrote Pickle Inspector's name in cursive right in mid air. The writing pulsed, then fell to the ground like ash. The ash swirled upwards, revealing the form of the Inspector.  
"Is it time already? Oh for heaven's sake, I'm not late again, am I?" The Inspector shoved up his sleeve and checked his watch.  
"Not as such," Death assured him. "We have some unexpected guests you might be interested in saying hello to." At last it dawned on the Inspector who stood at Death's side.  
"You two? How did you, well, that is, if you don't mind me ask-"  
"Irrelevant. We aren't stayin'," Slick silenced him. "I'm just killin' two birds with one knife."  
"The proper expression is "killing two birds with one stone," Droog corrected.  
"But I don't have a stone."  
"How would you even kill them both with a knife?"  
"Shish kebab 'em, I guess."

The Inspector gave a small laugh, attempting to hide his amusement at their conversation with his hand. The two Dersites turned to face him.  
"Oh yeah," Slick grabbed Droog's hand and pulled him over to the Inspector. Then he grabbed the other's hand, and he put them together.  
"You two get reacquainted, talk about manners, play kissy face, whatever. I need to speak with Death," he walked off, leaving the other two to their devices. Neither one let go, the Inspector out of sheer awkwardness and Droog out of shell-shock. The Inspector started stammering, a "good to see you" being one of the few intelligible things out of his mouth. Droog came to after hearing him speak. Their forced handshake was limp, so Droog held it more firmly before pulling the other man into a short, yet sincere hug.  
"Why don't we sit at the table" The Inspector gestured. "That is, if Death doesn't mind."  
"Make yourselves comfortable," Death insisted. "I'll join you soon enough," he turned away to give Slick his attention.  
"So," The Inspector began as they sat. "Long time no see," he frowned and put a hand out on the table. "Perhaps not long enough," he leaned forward to look Droog in the eyes. "Tell me, how did this happen?"  
Droog sighed and leaned forward as well, partially from emotional fatigue and partially to keep their conversation on the down-low. He explained about the chase into the mountains, which the Inspector politely responded enthusiastically to, then how Slick had tricked him into a murder-suicide right off a cliff, which the Inspector politely tsked at.  
"I don't know what got into him," Droog closed his eyes tightly, as though trying to concentrate. "You heard him, he keeps insisting we're not staying here, but I don't know what he means. We're dead; where else is there to go?"  
"He could still be in denial."  
"I know that's the most reasonable explanation. It's just..." Droog went on to explain a good deal of what the Midnight Crew had been through, with extra emphasis on the run-on with a certain purple hatted Felt member.

Meanwhile, Slick and Death exchanged a few notes.  
"Alright! You mind tellin' me why I'm losin' sleep and losin' my mind?" Slick began brusquely.  
"What makes you so sure I have anything to do with this?" Death loomed over him severely. Slick was unaffected and simply stared him down.  
"'Cause everything started going to crap once you brought me back."  
Death pulled back and looked at Slick with curiosity. "Go on," Slick explained about his unsettling dreams- if they could even be called that- once again. It was considerably less painful to discuss at the moment than it had been with Droog. Maybe because with Death, he had an impartial audience. Maybe because he suspected Death already knew. Or maybe just because it wasn't the first time Slick told anyone about it. Either way, he was somewhat perplexed by how easily it all came out. He would have figured Death's perpetual ogle would put anyone off, but somehow he found it comforting. It must have been the eyes. They were unemotional, and thus nonjudgmental- on every level.

Fortunately, Slick did not spill his guts a second time pointlessly. Death considered his complaint, then held up a finger again. This time, it was both to cast a shadow spell and to illustrate that he had an idea. He drew his finger down the air, where it created a small, dark rift. He reached a hand in and pulled out a thick, ornate tome. He flipped through the pages and Slick tried to look over his shoulder. Death shooed him away.  
"Oh, is that book about everyone's fates or something?" he asked. "An' I can't see any of it because this is stuff carapace was not meant to know?" He spoke the last line dramatically.  
"I couldn't care less what you know," Death answered, still thumbing through the book. "I just get tired of hearing everyone's incessant questions about it. Ah, here we are."  
"Did you find my file?"  
"If that's what you wish to call it," he skimmed the page, nodding and muttering to himself. "Yes, I see the problem. Of course! It's all because of a new concept I've concocted- it's still in early development stages. You see, I would like to simplify matters in regards to the sheer number of- and I can tell you're clearly not interested." He crossed his arms and waited for Slick to stop poking his own eye hole and giggling.  
"Oh sorry, were you saying something?"  
Death cleared his throat for emphasis. "It all comes down to this: the dreams felt so real to you because they were memories, but they weren't your memories."  
"Ha! I knew there was some freaky explanation! I can't wait to rub this in Droog's face."  
"Hmm," Death ignored him in favor of reading over the page once again to insure he did not miss anything crucial. "This is odd," he spoke softly. Slick didn't notice, but Death continued nonetheless. "Since the last update was made to my project, that 'glitch' if you will, was erased. And the last update was..." he trailed off, then abruptly turned to Slick. "When was the last time you slept?"  
"Pretty recently."  
"And you had the dreams then?"  
"Yeah, why?"  
Death scratched his skull. "I don't know how to say this, but something else is causing the dreams to occur."  
"What is it?" Slick, now highly invested in the conversation, tried to sneak a peek at the book. Death yanked it away. His eye sockets glowed purple.  
"I cannot say. I don't see any outside influences."  
Slick rolled his eye up to the ceiling and groaned. "You mean I'm gonna have those dreams forever?"  
"I wouldn't say that, but apparently ridding yourself of them won't be as simple as you hoped."  
"Well, thanks anyway," Slick's posture slumped. "I think." With his hands shoved dejectedly in his pockets, he bid Death farewell and headed over to Droog.

While Slick was busy, Droog was filling in the Inspector on everything that had occurred in his absence. He described how the Midnight City had blossomed from a small community to a city brimming with activity. He told all about the top venues, where to find the best drinks, and who was who. The Inspector asked who was in charge, and Droog answered.  
"This is all a relief to hear," The Inspector smiled and sipped his tea. "I've been concerned about how you took my death, and I never knew how to find out. But..." he reached forward and took Droog's hand. "It looks like you've moved on, am I right?"  
Droog began to answer, but then swallowed nervously, his heart in his throat. _Sure, you've moved on. But what if Slick can't get you out of here? Would "moving on" even matter anymore?_  
"Diamonds?" The Inspector gently urged. Droog, ever-so slightly narrowed his eyes at him, albeit unconsciously. The Inspector noticed.  
"S-sorry, was that out of line?"  
_No one gets to say your name like that but Spades Slick._  
"I... yes, I have moved on."

The Inspector smiled wider and sat back. "He'll be good for you. I know he's a handful- well, you probably know better than me- but his enthusiasm is rather infectious." Droog knew who he was referring to, but didn't feel like correcting him. He did shoot him a quick glare to shut him up when Slick approached.

"Alright, break it up," Slick commanded in a light-hearted sort of way. "Droog, we're heading out."  
Droog sighed and shrugged as if to say "What are ya gunna do" to the Inspector. He arose, then walked over to the Inspector's chair.  
"Once more, for old time's sake," he murmured, placing a soft kiss on the other man's lips. He did not linger. When they broke apart, the Inspector had a melancholy smirk on his face.  
"You weren't thinking about me."  
"No."  
"That's fine. We've had some good times."  
"Good-bye, Inspector."  
"At least we got to speak once more, while I wasn't delirious with that disease. Good-bye, Droog."  
Droog accompanied Slick, who had walked over to The Door.  
"I hope you know what you're doing."  
"Droog, please! Have some faith in me," Slick's hand turned violet. He painted the edges in flame. "While I was doing dream research, I taught myself a few more tricks."  
"Don't even think about abusing this privilege," Death, watching from the sidelines, reprimanded. "I will take your magic away, so help me."  
"Yeah, yeah," Slick grasped the doorknob. "Obviously, I've never done this one before. Hope you like being a guinea pig."  
"Not particularly- whoa!" Slick grabbed Droog around the waist and dragged him through the doorway. Droog wrapped his arms around Slick in return.  
"Hold on tight," Slick ordered as they zoomed by. "I don't want to imagine what would happen if you got lost..."  
His voice faded along with everything as darkness consumed them.

The first thing they noticed, when they came to, was that they were upside-down.  
"Oh shit, uh, Droog?" Slick turned to his partner, who was more or less unresponsive. "Oh shit." Droog's eyes were unfocused, as though he was staring at nothing. He was still conscious, rapidly mouthing what seemed to be a prayer. He rocked slightly, a bead of sweat trailing up his face. Slick tried opening his door, to no avail.  
"Droog, you can have your panic attack later. We need to get out of the car!" The random praying continued. "Wake the fuck up Sleeping Beauty, or I'll kiss you! With tongue!" At that, Droog finally started paying attention.  
"What was that..." he started, weakly. Slick ignored him.  
"Can you open your door?" Droog tried, but his was stuck as well. They couldn't roll down their windows either; the mechanism was busted.  
"We need to break 'em out" Slick determined. He dug through his pockets. "Where's my knife? I coulda sworn I had one! Where the fuck is-" The sound of shattering glass interrupted him. "How did you-"  
Droog wiggled his fingers at Slick, showing off a ring set with a hard, pointed gemstone.  
"That'll work."  
After Droog cleared away the excess glass, they crawled out the window. Wasting no time, they raced off and took cover. The car, as expected, caught fire.

Once they established that they were in the clear, Droog grabbed Slick's shoulders and practically shook him.  
"What! Was! That!"  
"D'ya mean-"  
"When we came back! What were all those-those- just thousands of eyes staring at us, gnashing teeth, and the singing-"  
"Whoa, whoa! I have no idea what you're talking about." Droog let go.  
"You didn't see them? Either time?"  
"Nope. You must be going crazy." For that, he received a glance so severe it kind of stung a little. "I'm just yanking your chain. There's probably a reasonable explanation. Nothin' to worry about."  
Droog seethed. He swore under his breath as he realized his cigarettes were in the car.  
"Fine. Forget about that. How about you tell me why you decided to pull this little stunt."  
Slick took a deep breath and explained himself hastily. "I figured Death could help me out with my dream problems, and I brought you along for the ride 'cause you an' Pickle Inspector never got to say a proper goodbye, and I thought, 'Hey, here's their chance!' but there's probably a spell that lets you talk to the dead or something less traumatizing than what I put you through- oh my Godhead, I am such an idiot," Slick held his face in his hands.  
"Yes. Yes, you are," Droog put an arm over his shoulder. "You're also an enigma. How anyone can be such a pain-in-the-ass, so cruel and vicious, yet so selfless, constantly going the extra mile for others, is beyond me. True, I'll probably need sweeps of therapy for this, but thank you."  
"Hey, I said I wanted you to be happy. Did you think that was just lip service? But, uh, don't start thinkin' this makes me some sorta saint. I don't go the extra mile for just anyone"  
"Mm-hmm," Droog swiftly curled his arm around Slick's neck, strangling him. "Now please, warn me next time you try something like that. Or I'll break both your legs. Got it?"  
"Got it," Slick gurgled. Droog tightened his hold.  
"Good. Now find us a way home." He let go and pushed Slick away. Now that his mind was at ease, he could address the needs of his body. Apparently, being brought back to life after an unexpected death healed one's wounds which lead to said death. Sadly, it did not mend clothes in the process. Furthermore, it did not cure any ailments which preceded the demise. All of a sudden, Droog felt queasy all over again. He got up rather ungracefully and darted off to vomit somewhere out of the way.

He wiped his mouth with a shaking arm. (The jacket was already ruined.) Slick was talking to someone on the cellphone, demanding they come get the two of them. Most likely Boxcars. Droog watched him, and Slick picked up on it. He glanced over at Droog, who looked away innocently. Specifically, he looked at the cliff-side they had gone down. He could scarcely believe how far he'd fallen.


	15. Problems and Solutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crew decide to come up with another heist. Slick goes to his room and uses a spell to get rid of his nightmares. He and Droog recall their moirallegiance starting back on Derse.

By the time Slick and Droog got back to the hideout, the sun was threatening to rise. They climbed into the opening, down the ladder with the rays of light warming their backs. Boxcars was sitting in the living area, reading a romance novel- the tawdry exploits of some fifty different trolls. He informed them that Deuce had already turned in for the day.  
"Well, someone go get him," Slick ordered. "We have some plans to make."  
Boxcars put his book aside and took up the task. Fortunately, it was not so early that he couldn't wrest the other man away from his bed. He came back with a drowsy Deuce sauntering along in tow.  
"What's going on? I was almost asleep" Deuce whined. "Is the hideout on fire?"  
"Droog, go make us some coffee." Slick snapped his fingers, then pointed to the kitchen. Droog bowed sarcastically, swatted at Slick's head when he wasn't looking, and got to work. Slick began pacing with his hands behind his back.  
"Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen." Slick gestured to the couch pointlessly, as the other two were already on it. "I need your complete mental presence now."  
"What fer?"  
Slick held up his hand. "Hold your hoofbeasts." Deuce and Boxcars looked at each other with mystification and curiosity. Whenever one of them tried to guess Slick's intentions, he either silenced them or quickly negated their assumption. He spun around, wearing a devious grin as Droog returned with a tray of coffee cups. Cream and two sugars for Deuce, black for Boxcars, half-and-half for Droog, skim milk and one sugar for Slick. He took a sip and shuddered, then gave Droog a long, hard stare.  
"Thank you," he said in earnest. The faces he pulled at the beverage made it clear it was an affront to his entire mouth. "Is that what coffee tastes like?" he muttered.

"We're all here now," Boxcars spoke up. "You gonna tell us what we're doing up at this hour?"  
"We are going to plan another heist," Slick proclaimed.  
"Are you serious?" Boxcars almost leapt forward.  
"I thought I'd never hear you say those words again!" Deuce clasped his hands in delight. Slick rubbed the back of his head. He suspected he'd been letting the Crew down lately, but that just confirmed it. Deuce gasped at his own words and covered his mouth. "I didn't mean literally, of course-" Slick shook his head and stared at him until Deuce shut his mouth.  
"Yeah, well, don't get too excited." He glanced over at Droog.  
"What?" Deuce frowned disapprovingly. "Did you put him up to this, Droog?"  
"I merely made a suggestion."  
"Aaaaanyway, tonight we're gonna figure out what the heist will involve." Slick got everyone back on track. "How are we gonna fuck with the Felt?"

Boxcars made a point first. "Why's it gotta be the Felt? Why not some other punks?"  
"'Cause all the other punks know where they stand with us," Slick explained. "The Felt are still under the delusion that they belong on top." He gazed upward and scratched his chin. "Although I wouldn't mind payin' a visit to the Furtive Scrivener. Asshole looked at me funny."  
"I say we blow the whole damn mansion sky high!" Deuce offered his suggestion, fuming uncharacteristically. The other three slowly turned to look at him, questioningly. He just crossed his arms. "Maybe then we'll have a chance at killing that lucky little pissant."  
"I thought Clover was alright by you," Droog pointed out.  
"Not after what he did last time!" Deuce snapped. "You think you're the only one who cares about the boss?"  
"So, Deuce! I like your moxie," Slick began loudly, startling Droog, who had begun clenching his fist. "But that's a bit too much like what we did on the last heist. I don't want the Felt thinkin' we're one trick ponies."

They spent the next half-hour tossing ideas off each other, but none of them quite clicked. At least, Slick, Deuce, and Boxcars contributed. Droog took everything in, agreeing or disagreeing occasionally, but otherwise was not vocal. When he outright stopped paying attention, Slick noticed.  
"What do you think?" he asked in a slightly loud voice. Droog, who was leaning forward with his cheek in his hand, didn't realize the focus was on him. Boxcars elbowed him.  
"You looked pensive," Slick said. "That or bored."  
"Pensive," Droog confirmed, speaking conscientiously. "What if we converted a few of the Felt?"  
"Do you mean get them to join our side?" Deuce asked.  
"Droog, what did you put in your coffee?" Slick chuckled at his suggestion. "Even if they weren't our worst enemies, we've got a good thing going with our crew. We can't just mess with it. Now if you suggest something so blasphemous again, I'll cut off your toes."  
Droog shrugged and inhaled through his teeth. "Oh alright," he began in a troublemaking tone. "But there are fifteen of them- seventeen if you include Doc Scratch and Lord English- and only four of us."  
"Hey, who needs quantity when you've got quality, amiright?" Slick exclaimed. Deuce and Boxcars rooted their enthusiasm in unison, but Droog tellingly did not respond. "I said 'who needs'-"  
"I heard what you said. I'm not sure I agree about us being quality these days."

Slick was on his feet, trying to stare down a man one head taller than him. "You got a problem with the way I'm running things? 'Cause if so, you can just walk!"  
"I wouldn't have such a problem-" Droog hissed. "-if you were running things at all!" Slick took a step back, looking bemused.  
"Listen, I know I've been-"  
"No, you listen," Droog grabbed his arm. "Do you know why I nearly killed those assholes at the convenience store?"  
"Because they were assholes," Slick answered, albeit unsure.  
"Because as soon as they saw me, they started talking shit. 'What happened to the Midnight Crew, anyway?' 'You never see Spades Slick around.' It only got worse from there." Slick tried glaring at Droog, but he couldn't bring himself to do so.

"Face the facts, Spades. Your name doesn't carry the same weight it used to. So unless you can prove you've still got what you once had, your best bet is to compensate with a little extra firepower," Droog, finishing his diatribe, let go and turned his back on his boss.  
"You fucking liar," Slick accused. "You're just spreading misinformation, tryin' to make me look incompetent so you can take over! That's fuckin' it, isn’t it?" Droog still had his back turned, and Slick shoved him. "You never liked that someone as young as me could have so much power, so now you've stuck your foot through the door! Say something!"

Droog was about to tell Slick to calm down, tell him he was being irrational, condescendingly tell him he needed a nap. But such was unnecessary. He turned around to answer, but Slick was not in a fighting stance as he anticipated. Rather, he appeared smaller than even Deuce. He knew full well that Droog spoke the truth, and he could no longer pretend otherwise.  
"Talk amongst each other," Slick mumbled, heading to his bedroom. "I'll be out later." He escaped into his room and slammed the door.

"'Face the facts, Spades, face the facts!'" Slick stomped around and childishly growled. "'Your name doesn’t carry' nyeh nyeh nyeh!" He stopped and collapsed on his bed with a sneer. "Stupid Droog." He stabbed the mattress aimlessly. "Thinks he's right alla time just 'cause he knows everything." With a heavy sigh, he ceased creating new holes and instead abused the bed by casually twisting the knife back and forth. He gazed at its motions, contemplating.

That knife was like an extension of his hand. He was an artist, his victims: his canvas. He pulled it out, aimed for a spot on the wall, and threw. Perfect shot. _Try again. Make sure it's not a fluke._ Perfect. Ten more expertly rendered slashes in the walls, (and one decapitated mouse) later, and Slick was feeling a bit cocky. He held up a mirror, wedged between his ring and pinky fingers, to judge his next shot. This one he aimed for the door, as he exhausted most available wall space. Immediately after launching the knife, the door swung open. Slick dropped the mirror and spun around, ready to panic.

It was Deuce. The pointed projectile sailed right over his head.

He was carrying a cup, and he paid no mind to Slick's obviously agitated demeanor as he waltzed into the room to place said cup on an end table. Slick eyed him the whole way. Would he have anything to remark about the recently butchered walls?

"You left your coffee. I thought you might want to drink it before it got cold."  
Slick grumbled something in gratitude, and Deuce started to leave. He placed his hand on the doorknob and hesitated. _Don't be too long,_ he considered saying. _Droog is worried about you._ He turned to Slick, who watched him like a hawk. He needed privacy.  
"Well, out with it."  
"Nothing. Never mind."  
Slick raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He dismissed Deuce, but called out through the crack in the door, "Don't make any final decisions without me."  
"We wouldn't think of it, Boss."

Slick absentmindedly took a sip of coffee, then nearly spat it back out. He chided himself for forgetting to psych his taste buds. Rather than allow it to antagonize him with its bitter flavor, he chugged the damn thing. Then he threw the cup on the ground and crushed it beneath his shoe in a display of dominance.

"That's right! I am the Midnight King!" He pounced onto his bed and stood in what he assumed was an impressive pose. "I'll show them all, too!" He relaxed a bit and began pacing. "If only I could figure out how to stop these dreams. They're the only thing holding me back anymore." His thoughts grew more complex, and his motions grew more spasmodic. While deeply entrenched in speculation, he swiveled too quickly and caught his foot in a tangle of sheets. Down he tumbled. He clawed desperately at a nearby desk as he fell, succeeding only in knocking down a can of fountain pens in the process. He jumped back up, his dignity unshaken, and collected the fallen items. One pen had broken apart upon impact and was seeping blue ink into the floor; another had rolled under the bed. Preferring not to have to explain a suspicious blue stain in the future, Slick bent down to remove it. Not with cleaning materials. He wasn't no sucker. A shake of his hand, and powder the color of lavender sprinkled out onto the stain. Within seconds, the stain disappeared, leaving behind a sparkling, unblemished, pure white spot on the floor... a sea of dingy grayish brown surrounding it. Slick considered cleaning his floor more often. After retrieving the second pen, he intended to place it in its rightful spot. But he did not. He stared at the island of cleanliness, first, trying to figure out if it would be simpler to get that section grimy again, and second, forming a hypothesis.

_Maybe I can just erase the dreams._

On Slick's desk sat a worn tome. "Worn" being an understatement. It was large in all dimensions with silver borders and silver curlicues decorating the cover. (Those curlicues were in fact a dead script, but Slick didn't know that.) The binding appeared either violet or black, depending on angle of the light that hit it. It was the type of book which would look far more appropriate sitting atop a gilded pedestal, ensconced in glass. The type of book one only read in sacred rituals, and otherwise only bothered with to prevent layers of dust from accumulating. Of course, being that it belonged to Spades Slick, it was more often than not relegated to the task of paperweight or coaster. That's not to say it didn't get its fair share of proper usage. A good number of pages were dog-eared, and odds were, one could open it to any page to find words circled and notes in the margins. Slick opened the book to the index. _No sense in dicking around. Might as well get right to it. Yes! There it is!_ His finger landed on the word "dreams". _How to control your dreams- close but no cigar. How to control others' dreams- no. How to enter others' dreams- no. Dammit, where's the section on erasing dreams? Wait, here's 'displaying your dreams'. This one might be useful. Maybe I can use it in conjunction with another spell._ The pages made sad, crinkling noises as he turned them, and half threatened to fall right out of the spine. He did not let them deter him, and after a period of immersion, he found his solution. He stood motionless for a moment or two and cleared his thoughts. This one was gonna be a doozy. He would need to allow all his magical reserves to replenish.

The bed... he'd have to take action with that if he expected any modicum of success. Old candy wrappers were sent to the trash. The holes, well, he'd just have to live with for now. The sheets were getting rank from neglect. Those were swiftly replaced, along with the lumpy pillows. Slick stood back to admire a job well done. He had half a mind to drag Droog in there, just to prove to him that he could clean up after himself.

_"Oh, so you can do chores wrigglers could do. Bravo, Spades. Bravo."_

Slick swatted his imagination away.

The first step was simple. Simple, not necessarily easy. He lied on the bed, flat on his back- enough to provide comfort, but not enough to induce deep slumber. He let relaxation swarm his body as he counted sheep. _Or woolbeasts, I guess they're called- oh fuck, I'm thinking too hard._ It took some time, but soon the sheep began to change. Slick was not affecting this change. Despite still being awake and cognizant, he could not treat the dream like a dream. He had to let it do its thing, and it took every fiber of his willpower.

As expected, the sheep transformed into citizens of Prospit and Derse. Some looked familiar, others appeared as black or white smudges. It had begun. The next step was to keep steady. Let the dream become as vibrant as possible without losing himself to it. Slowly, one flicker at a time, he summoned the violet flames. Carefully, one inch at a time, he raised his hand to his ear. And exactly when he found his mind slipping into the madness of that monstrosity, he zapped himself. It was lightning quick. It had to be; you have to sneak up on these things.

Images danced around the fires on his hands, tiny voices called out for aid. Next came the fun part. He slapped his hand against a wall and fervently wiped it back and forth. After a vigorous application of spectral magicka, most of the wall was covered in a surreal, gruesome- and moving- mural. (The top of the wall could not be reached.) Had Slick not been so adamant about curing himself, he might've appreciated the fact that his dreams could be viewed objectively for once. But that wasn't the case, so he continued with the most crucial step of the plan. Erasure. The flames had all but extinguished, so he returned them to life to finish the job. He couldn't dawdle, otherwise the mural would disappear. It was already crumbling at the edges.

 _Now to get the stuff on the wall._ Slick searched the room for a tool, and opted for an empty can. He sliced off the top with his knife, then filled it to the brim with the magical erasing powder. Starting at the top, he tossed the contents of the can wall-ward. Most it stayed where it landed, while some of it slid downward. Slick slapped his hand against the mural and spread the powder around, taking care to leave no part of the vision detectable. Furiously, he worked, fearing he'd either tear open his hand or rub some of the paint off the wall. When he was satisfied at last, he sat back and waited for the effects to take place. Soon there would be nothing but a blank slate.

The powder soaked into the wall, leaving in its place... Spades Slick, shuffling a deck of cards, looking bored. Or, an image of him. He looked older, thinner, haggard, somehow both stronger and weaker. The most jarring trait was the robotics that made up most of his body. Slick- the one in three dimensions- was about to throw another handful of powder on this wraith, but held back when he saw what his alternate was holding. He pulled out the ace of diamonds, touched it to his lips and dropped it with the tiniest mournful sigh. Real Slick found himself drawn into this sight out of masochistic curiosity- _Is that a vision of the future?_ Then Dream Slick faced Real Slick. And he spoke.

"You damned fool." Real Slick jumped back in surprise. That specter was looking right at him! (At least, he seemed to be. His robotic eye could have been going any direction.) "You never learned and you never will."

Slick's first instinct and reaction was to stab the wall to disable the secondary vision, but it faded from sight before the blade made impact. For a second he stopped, his brain shorting out. Then clarity rained down on him like Droog with that freezing-as-all-fuck garden hose.

"Wait, come back!" He slammed against the wall and wailed on it mercilessly. "What the fuck was that supposed to mean? What do I need to learn?" Every word was accented by a kick or a stab. The more Slick persisted, the more evident it became that his cyborg doppelganger would not being returning. The wall yielded no further information, because it was just wall. Slick remorsefully backed away. Victory was bittersweet.

Droog barged in without knocking.  
"What on Derse are you up to?" He clammed up after noticing the freshly mutilated walls. "Redecorating, I see." Slick glanced at the man, then his eye flickered over to the site of Dream Slick. What if it was prophetic? Could Droog have any clue what lied in store? He caught Slick's eye movement and followed it.  
"Huh. I just realized your walls are white."  
"Only 'cause I don't let you smoke in here."  
"That'd explain it."  
"Droog, you," Slick started, then paused to think. He was slightly hunched over, in an ambiguous position that could have indicated submission or the intent to fight. Droog took a step forward. "You can leave any time. That's not an order," Slick offered, his voice so small and low, Droog had to strain to hear it. But once spoken, it reverberated in his head like something most cacophonous.  
"If I'm holding you back-" Slick continued, but let it end there. Droog was standing right next to him. He reached a hand towards Slick's shoulder- was it trembling? Apparently the action was to comfort himself as much as Slick. When he was halfway there, he changed his mind. He pulled Slick into a hug so fast, Slick was certain he got whiplash.

"Shoosh, it's okay, it's okay, you don't have to go anywhere," Slick murmured, awkwardly papping Droog on the back.  
"You're damn right I don't," Droog clutched the fabric of Slick's jacket, his voice guttural and distressed. His fingers made their way to the front of Slick's neck, tracing a faded, yet angry scar. "I made a promise. A promise."

_Be DD in the past._

_You are now the Draconian Dignitary. You are on patrol in the Dersite palace. It's a slow night, but at least your route takes you past Jack Noir's office. The profanities he spews regarding certain royalty are always entertaining. And loud. More than once it has crossed your mind to record those rants for the sake of blackmail. But you don't. Instead, you watch. You watch as he makes unsolicited corrections to battle plans, and always puts odds in your favor. You watch as he spends his free time either throwing knives or playing piano, depending on the type of stress he's experiencing. You watch as he gets trapped, more consistently with every passing day, in his office. You can barely stand to watch as raw talent gets buried under a mountain of paperwork. It just makes you feel... well, you can't think of the word._

_Just a few steps away from Jack's door now. You wonder what he's been saddled with tonight. A sudden, high-pitched noise, the unmistakable shattering and tinkling of glass spurs you to action. You can tell the sound came from Jack's office. It's probably just Jack throwing a bottle down in rage, but you have a duty to see to these sorts of things._

_Sir? Is everything alright in there? You demand, opening the door a crack. (Your superior has strict instructions that you refrain from pestering him.) When he doesn't respond, you elect to ignore his instructions and slip into the room. Jack's not at his desk, and there's a suspicious draft. The room's a bit dark; the only light: a small lamp showering a modest pile of papers in a white glow. Your eyes adjust, and that's when you find him. He's sitting on the floor in a corner, and at your presence, he seems to cower. You place your spear on the ground and approach him, hands up to show they are empty._ What's gotten into him? _You ask yourself._ Literally or figuratively... _The aroma of booze is pungent. You are getting closer. He looks like a a wild animal, cornered and weakened, no- injured._

_Now you can see. The front of his tunic is tinted a deep crimson. The source: a jagged slit running the length of his neck. At the sight, you break into a cold sweat. Thank Godhead he's still alive, but how could you let this happen on your watch? Your rudimentary knowledge of first aid keeps him alive a while longer, but he needs professional help._

_How did this happen? You blurt out, not really expecting an answer. Jack tries to speak, but only pain and sputtering comes from his mouth. He lifts a finger towards the window. It's broken. A large, uneven hole has replaced most of it. You piece two and two together. Someone broke in and attacked, you stammer. Jack nods rapidly, or he tries to before realizing how much that aggravates his current condition. You tell him you’ll call for someone to get him patched up, and you do._

_He spends the night in the Oldfangled Healer's room. He must have been through quite the ordeal, because he doesn't even protest the notion. While he snoozes off the painkillers, you make it your mission to find the bastard who done it. This is something you cannot do alone. Fortunately, you know just the guy for the job: a Prospitian by the title of the Analytic Detective. For a small price, he agrees to do a thorough search of the place._

_When the Detective approaches you later on, his expression is grim. You ask if he uncovered any evidence, but all he can give you is a single, incriminating slip of paper. Immediately after reading it, you slip it into your pocket, pay the Detective, and dash off to find Jack. You don't care if you're causing a ruckus as your boots slap against the stony floors. You can't get to him fast enough. In the healer's room, everything is still and peaceful. You're out of breath, so Jack speaks first._

_Did you catch him? he wants to know, forgoing any traditional greeting. He doesn't meet your gaze, instead he looks to the left. Did you find out who tried to assassinate him?_

_You can still sense the note in your pocket. Somehow it feels heavier than it should. Despite being worn out, right now Jack is beyond angry. Frustrated._

_Yes, we caught him, you confirm. Your mouth feels dry, but you fake a triumphant smirk for show. He seems genuinely surprised as you kneel down next to his bed and take his hand in yours. You make your pledge: And with Godhead as your witness, you will make it your top priority to stand by his side._

_He's grateful. He doesn't say as much; he's hesitant. You can tell by his mannerisms. He's never been one to ask for help directly, no matter how much he needed it. You hold his hand longer than what would be considered appropriate, but he doesn't mind. The two of you savor the compassion of the moment, and it's in that Healer's room that you finally realize. You pity Jack._

_Stop being Past DD._

"Yeah, I know you made a promise." Slick broke away from the hug and crossed his arms. "But it's not like you signed a fucking contract."  
"That doesn't mean I can't take it seriously."  
"No, it just means you do see me as a burden."  
Droog sat down on the bed and patted the spot next to him. Slick joined him. He put his arm around the shorter man's shoulders and began his speech.

"You probably don't remember, but something phenomenal happened while we were in exile. After the Drifter's death, the Shepherd insisted on carrying her until we found some place liveable, so that she could be given a proper send-off into the afterlife. Nothing we said could sway him, and he refused to abandon her," Droog gave Slick a pointed look. "Do you get my meaning?"  
"No, yeah, I do remember that," Slick rambled. "And after a while the weight became too much for him. The rest of ya had to carry her."  
"Don't derail my analogy." _Apparently, he didn't get the meaning._  
"His body couldn't take it anymore." Slick leaned into his partner, laying his head on his chest. "How long before your spirit can't take it?" _Oh. Maybe he did get it._

Slick rose, slipping out of the room. Droog followed. He cleared his throat to get Boxcars' and Deuce's attention.  
"We're going with Droog's idea," he announced. "We're gonna coerce some Felt into joining our side." In little time, the room was abuzz with the sound of scheming. Droog could only shake his head.

_That was a test, Slick. And you failed._

The only consolation was how much fun the other two were having with the plan.


	16. Foolproof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first step is getting information, preferably from Fin or Trace, which Deuce and Droog offer to do.

"So, have we decided which members of the Felt we'll be recruiting?" Droog interrupted the already disjointed conversation between his cohorts. "Or how many, for that matter?"  
"Just a few, probably," Slick answered cautiously, still thinking it over. "No more than half of them. If we bring too many over, they could gang up on us. Ideally, we'll be pitting them against each other."  
The other three nodded in agreement. Droog had to admit that he was impressed with the way Slick took that poorly thought out- not to mention borderline insulting- idea, and ran with it.

"As for who we're gonna recruit" he deliberated a bit longer. "It all depends on what they can offer us, whether or not they'll be a liability, and if they're even worth the trouble"  
"How do we determine all that?" Deuce asked. There was a pause as they all looked around, expecting somebody else to answer.  
"We'll need an itinerary," Slick finally spoke up, the answer being one which was not merely contemplated, but fully realized. At times like that, one could almost see something click inside Slick's head. The answer was not up for debate. "We need to know where all those green assholes are gonna be and when for the next few weeks."  
"Why's that?" Boxcars raised his hand in ignorance. He debated whatever he wanted.  
"So we'll know how to approach 'em," Slick explained in a patronizingly slow tone.  
"Can't we just tell 'em to join our side, or we'll pulverize them?"  
Slick and Droog simultaneously pinched between their brows.  
"We want them to trust us," Droog contributed.  
"Not to mention, a bunch of 'em could pulverize _us_ single-handedly," Slick muttered. "We gotta use subterfuge for this."  
"Just leave that to us," Deuce piped up, tugging on Droog's jacket. Droog looked down, one brow raised. "We’ll get the information you need!"  
"Swell," Slick tried not to sound thrilled, but he was unmistakably grateful about Deuce's enthusiasm. "You let me know if there's anyway I can help."  
"Will do," Deuce then dragged the taller Dersite away to speak in private.

As they walked off, Droog demanded an explanation for why he was roped into the task.  
"Us?" he repeated, baffled. "What do you expect me to do?"  
"Think about it. People tend not to notice me-"  
"I've never quite understood that, what with your affinity for unbelievable headwear and flashy dress."  
"Why thank you, but-"  
"That wasn't a compliment."  
" _But_ that's what allows me to slip by unnoticed."  
"Ah, the old 'hide in plain sight' technique."  
"Exactly. Meanwhile, You're the opposite. You've got this presence which says, 'Look at me, look at me'-" Deuce mimicked in a singsong voice, and shut up after Droog narrowed his eyes at him menacingly. Deuce cleared his throat. "Point is, people do notice you."  
"You're insinuating that I should act as a diversion while you sneak around for some reason."  
"Now you're catching on."

They continued their chat in the kitchen area, sitting across from each other at the table.  
"Alright. Lay it on me," Droog put his hands behind his head. "What are you proposing?"  
Deuce gave a tiny, impish grin. Keeping their exchange hush-hush seemed like the wisest course of action- despite there being no enemies around to eavesdrop- so he leaned forward, nearly climbing onto the table.  
"Who do we know," he whispered in Droog's ear. Droog had to pull back because Deuce still couldn't manage a proper whisper. "Who always knows where people will be?"  
"Fin."  
"Yup! So we need to-"  
"Put a gun to Fin's head and make him tell us his associates' future trails. Got it," Droog pushed his chair out and started to leave. Deuce yanked him back down.  
"You're forgetting someone."  
"Who- oh, right. Trace," Droog absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the table, mulling over the issue. Trace and Fin were nigh inseparable.

Fin had not always been a hardened gangster. He grew up living a cushy, if dull and dreary life, rather like Slick's. That is, until he fell on hard times and lost virtually everything. His youth and inexperience did not help him, either. For better or for worse, he was saved from a wretched existence, subsisting on scraps and forged by petty crime. His guardian angel was a street rat: just barely his senior, but sweeps more worldly. Before, Trace wouldn't have given Fin or his ilk a second thought. Then he saw him in his desperate, ruined state. Perhaps there was a desire to be the one calling the shots, to be the mentor, rather than the one who was always at the bottom. Perhaps there were genuine feelings of sympathy. But all notions of vindication, of schadenfreude, were beat into submission by love and tolerance. Trace took Fin under his wing. He taught him how to survive in the harsh scapes of Alternia, and brought him to the Felt.

The Felt placed Fin under harsh scrutiny, but Trace was adamant that the young man had what it took. He personally trained him all the skills he knew: espionage, proper gun technique, and all forms of theft, ranging from pickpocketing to that of the grand variety. With his guidance, Fin passed inspection and was permitted admittance into the Felt. Still, it took a while before he was completely confident in his newfound criminal abilities, to say nothing of his newfound temporal powers. During this stage, Trace kept an eye on him. It was then that the fires of true friendship were stoked.

If Droog and Deuce were to mess with one of them, they would have to deal with the other. There was no getting around it.  
"Do I want to know the rest of your plan," Droog's voice did not go up at the end, as it normally would when asking a question. He already knew the answer, but Deuce was going to tell him everything anyway, so he might as well be polite.

"First, we need to find Fin. He'll be at the Broad's club tomorrow night. You'll tell him you're an associate of Doc Scratch. Plant the idea in his head that the rest of the Felt don't trust him, since he knows their fates. Then just wait until he tells Trace. We'll need to keep away from him, by the way. He'll be more savvy to what we're up to.

"I recently learned from Ace Dick," Deuce continued, clasping his hands together, his eyes shining with excitement, "That every Thursday, he plays poker with Trace, Die, and Stitch. I'm going to pay him off not to go- just to simplify matters. And you are going to contact Stitch, since you two get along so well-"  
"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Deuce."  
"I was being half serious!" Deuce rolled his eyes. "You tell him there's information you need from Trace. Of course, Trace is too smart to give it up to just anyone. Not to mention, those two aren't exactly on the best terms. Instead, Stitch should actually use that to his advantage. All throughout the poker game, he'll antagonize Trace, until Trace forms a minor allegiance with Die. Ideally, Trace will tell Die everything he learned from Fin, in the hopes of using that knowledge to get back at Stitch. Now, on Saturdays, Die and Matchsticks get together to, well, have a bit of fun. Die gets rather talkative in that state, so he'll spill everything. And Matchsticks always writes down important information. So for the final phase of the plan, I'll pickpocket Matchstick's notebook, and voila! We know where the Felt are going to be!

"Any questions?"  
"Just one. Did you get into Slick's stash of licorice?"  
Deuce inhaled impatiently and gave Droog an exasperated look.  
"You got any better ideas, wise guy?"  
"Probably," Droog answered with a smirk. "Let's see how yours pans out, though. I could use a laugh. Oh, but let's track down Fin somewhere else. Let's not drag the Broad into this."  
"Speaking of laughs," Deuce headed out of the kitchen, beckoning the other Dersite into his bedroom. Droog's snide remark washed over him like nothing. "You'll be needing a disguise." He threw open his closet doors, revealing clothes of all sizes, and pulled out a couple outfits. One looked like the uniform of a circus ringleader, complete with top hat, tails, and sequins. The other was a fringy flapper dress, combined with a trendy headband and sheer garters. "And have I got disguises."  
"Why do you- no. No. Absolutely not."  
Deuce looked despondently at the dress. "Drat. And this was so expensive to commission, I was hoping I'd get the chance to use it some day."  
Droog shoved his way towards the closet and browsed. "Make some adjustments and wear it yourself, then," Then, with a genuine smile, he pulled out a suit. "This one! This is the perfect disguise!"  
"Droog, that looks exactly like your default suit," Deuce raised an eyebrow.  
"Not exactly. This one is dark drown with a light gray tie," he reviewed the tag inside the jacket. "And it's made of cheaper materials. I'd be completely unrecognizable in something like this."  
Deuce just lowered his head, giving the faintest whimper.  
"That adorably pathetic act won't work. I'm wearing this or nothing."

In the living area, Slick's head popped up. He snapped to attention, eyes darting all around him.  
"Did you just hear something?"  
"Like what?"  
"Like the most wonderful thing."  
Boxcars concentrated for a bit. "Nope, can't say I did."  
"Huh. Forget it, then."

"Well, wearing nothing would certainly be distracting," Deuce trailed off, snickering. Droog turned away and mouthed a swear at his own gaffe. After he calmed down, Deuce went on to his next idea, giving in to Droog's stubborn sense of style. "At the very least, you should hide your voice a little."  
"Way ahead of you," Droog pulled out a few cigarettes and shoved them in his mouth. He reached into his jacket pocket for his lighter, only to have Deuce yank it out of his hand.  
"Not in here. I don't need your putrid stench ruining all my clothes."  
"Trust me, they don't need any help with that," Droog held out his hand for the lighter, and Deuce handed it over with a playful smile. They left the room with Droog's arm over Deuce's shoulder. Any bad blood coursing between them was long gone.

The next day, Deuce ran his idea by Slick, who gave his approval. Droog and Deuce could start with the first step. Locating Fin himself would be no ambitious task. He still didn't see himself as a criminal, just someone who, on occasion, engaged in criminal activities. Because of that, unlike most of his fellow Felt, he did not see the importance of skulking about or keeping a low profile. It was just a matter of asking around the city, and Droog and Deuce quickly discerned Fin's whereabouts.

He was loafing around in some dingy, hole-in-the-wall bar. It was the kind of establishment which normally would be well below the Felt's more elegant standards, as well as being a place Fin might have avoided had his livelihood not decided to circle the drain. This was more Trace's style, who still preferred to hang out in the same clubs that he did before coming into wealth, thanks to joining an exclusive gang.

After handing their weapons over to the Surly Gatekeeper who was guarding the entrance, Droog opened the door, and immediately wiped his hand on a handkerchief from his front pocket. The notion that he might come across as slightly prissy came second to his desire for fingers not defiled by a door handle decorated with a sweep old layer of grimy film. In one corner of the room, a handful of carapaces were playing a poker game- which was where the majority of the action took place. Other patrons kept to themselves and their drinks. The bartender had a hardened look, the kind that would tear you to shreds if you ordered anything fancier than a beer. A few unimpressive lightbulbs swung from the ceiling; the only form of illumination. At least one was on its way out. Old-fashioned wallpaper adorned the walls, peeling at the corners and sporting unsightly holes from past brawls.

Diamonds Droog, right hand man to the leader of the most respected gang on Alternia, stepped inside the bar. And...

Absolutely fuckall happened. _It seems that folks who have already hit rock bottom don't tend to intimidate so easily,_ Droog observed. A swift, yet exhaustive once-over of the place told the two men that they had the right spot. Fin was seated at a flimsy looking table, trying to have a soft conversation with the character seated adjacent. It went unwanted. Trace, fortunately or unfortunately, was both present and oblivious. He was ordering drinks while considering pretending he didn't know who Fin was. _What? No... He followed me in here. Yeah._ But no one cared, or at least didn't care enough to make a thing of it, so that circumstance never came up.

Droog waltzed up to Fin's table, slyly motioning for Deuce to find some place out-of-the-way to park himself.  
"Is anyone sitting here?" Droog asked Fin, already pulling the chair out. Fin greeted the interruption with a frown. Or maybe that was his default expression.  
"Yes, as a matter of fact," he looked more closely at the man in the finely tailored suit. _Golly, that looks a lot like Diamonds Droo- wait. Couldn't be. He'd never wear such a cheap-looking suit._ He waved his hand in a flippant manner. "So why don't you just, you know, skedaddle."  
"I'll be brief," Droog sat down. Unaware if this particular establishment prohibited smoking but well aware that nobody would give him trouble over it, he retrieved two cigarettes and offered one up. Fin hesitated, then he took it; his concern about not looking like a square trumping any paranoia that the thing might be contaminated.

While Droog and Fin had their little chat, Deuce watched from a table in the corner, ready to help bail his cohort out if things went awry. He did not hide behind his drink menu (which, by the way, consisted of such classics as "Beer", and "Beer in a clean glass"), as that would have been conspicuously inconspicuous. He did give it a casual glance, from time to time, but more out of amusement than as a vain effort at hiding. Such an act lacked purpose; no one saw him enter. For the most part, he did keep an eye on the other two. Droog's back was turned, and since Droog wasn't known for exaggerated body language, Deuce had no clue what he was saying. It must have been the right words, because Fin's face went from bored to concerned, to downright frantic. Well, technically he still wore that same snarly expression, but Deuce could tell there was change in his eyes.

Droog left Fin to his musing, and homed in on Deuce with ease. Deuce's hiding skills, impressive as they were, were no match for Droog's finding skills. He sat down at the table, and other than a quick nod to indicate that the plan was going smoothly, he made sure to ignore Deuce. Then, together they watched as Fin slowly (perhaps too slowly), moved from his table, over to the bar. Trace had gotten stuck there, roped into calming down a sobbing drunkard. The man had grown attached to Trace and became vocal and violent when Trace tried to pull away. On his left, Fin tapped at Trace's arm, desperate to talk to him. He wasn't having much success at being heard, thanks to the lush at his right.

A tall Dersite dressed in a sub-par suit sidled up behind the annoyance and gave his neck a quick snap. A hush fell over the room, and Fin and Trace turned to see the cause. They both gave Droog a grin of approval. The bartender kicked the corpse aside, Droog returned to his table, and Deuce just shook his head.

"You really need to learn some patience."  
Droog shrugged. "What has that ever gotten anyone? Probably not much, since they're too busy being patient."  
"This from the man who spends half his late nights ironing his clothes."  
"See, I'm plenty patient!"  
"No you're- wait, I forget what we were arguing about."  
"Shush, they're talking now!"

Fin leaned in close to Trace and beckoned him even closer. He spoke at length. One tooth-grindingly agonizing moment later, and Fin was back at his seat. Trace stayed behind, yelling at the bartender that he got their drink order wrong.

"I didn't order any ice, and I am not going to pay for it," he slammed the drink down angrily, nearly smashing it in the process. He also very nearly missed that same tall Dersite grabbing a bar stool next to him. (Droog had made his way over there to Deuce's protests and befuddlement.) He got Trace's attention by casually flirting with him, which simultaneously threw him off the scent. (Droog would never flirt with him.) Still, Trace was having none of it. His pursuer pulled all the stops: purring into his ear, stroking his ego, stroking his thigh. It all had a weakening effect. Droog knew he had him, and when he slipped his hand inside Trace's jacket, as though making a move to hold him around the waist, Trace barely bristled at the touch. Then, he felt a jab and heard a click.

"You know something. Now spill," Droog purred again, like a cat with cornered prey.  
"You wouldn't bring a loaded gun here," Trace hissed. "The Gatekeeper would've confiscated that thing."  
Droog smirked and drew back his empty hand. He had formed his fingers into a gun shape and poked Trace, then snapped them to recreate the proper sound.  
"That was weak," Trace sneered. "What kind of trick was that?" Droog just kept smirking and walked off.  
"It's been fun."  
"Whatever, asshole," Trace turned his back. "I wasn't interested, anyway. 'Specially not in some fruity dickweed Dignitary," he grumbled as he rose as well, returning to Fin with the drinks. "What kinda Dignitary wears ugly-ass shit like that, anyhow?"

With a surreptitious flicker of his hand, Droog summoned Deuce to follow him outside. Once they were out, and out of the Gatekeeper's (from whom Droog retrieved his gun) line of sight, Droog pulled out two more cigarettes. He offered one to Deuce, who responded by tapping his foot irritably.  
"Could you please remind me what part of the plan involved making a move on our enemy?"  
"It's called, 'improvisation'"  
"I don't care what you call it, you can do it on your down time."  
Droog was about to correct Deuce when his eye caught the door swinging open. He held up a finger for silence. Fin and Trace exited, and the smirk returned.

"Go distract Fin for me," Droog whispered to Deuce in a voice so faint, he had to strain to hear him. Had the Crew not spent an amount of time together practically sufficient for telepathy amongst each other, Deuce would have been lost. But no, he had a pretty good idea of what Droog was getting at. He cocked his head as if to say, "How should I?" and Droog mumbled in a vague way and shooed him along as if to say, "I don't care; just do it."

So Deuce traipsed up behind Fin and picked his pocket. He resisted the urge to make it a clean, effective pick, and made sure his target noticed him. After he was predictably caught, he waddled off with surprising speed.  
"Give that back, you little-" Fin darted after him.  
"Is this a picture of your sister?" Deuce pulled open his spoils: Fin's wallet. "Or just you in drag? Either way, I need some major brain bleach!"  
"Hey, fuck you, asshole!"

Trace started to chase Deuce along with his friend, but Droog stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Then, there was that familiar poke in the back.  
"Nice try. I ain't falling for that one again."  
There was the unmistakable sound of a trigger being pulled.

Nothing.

"Seems that chamber wasn't loaded," Droog said quietly, yet menacing. "Want to find out if the rest are?"  
Trace froze. "Okay, what's your deal?"  
"I'm curious. Did Fin tell you anything interesting?"  
"No, no, not really."  
Droog crept his hand up to Trace's chin. "I think I'll make that decision. Now talk."  
"Fuck no!" Trace spat. "What kinda yellow fowl do you take me for?"  
Droog took a few seconds to respond. When he did, he stepped away, removing the barrel of his gun from Trace's back, and laughed. He laughed so hard he might have wiped away a few tears if were capable of shedding them. Trace just looked at him, fuming.  
"I'm sorry," Droog said with a chuckle. "But the idea of you showing loyalty to the Felt is just absurd."  
"Yeah, whatever," Trace started to walk away, and Droog put the gun to his head.  
"Did I say you could leave?"  
"Okay! So I'm kind of in some hot water with the Felt right now, and I don't want this coming back to haunt me," he then added somberly. "Or Fin."  
"How sweet," Droog murmured. "Then, for his sake, you'd better tell me what I want to know."  
"Fine! Jegus! But you didn't hear it from me, got it?"

And so, Droog got what he came for. When he was satisfied, he shoved Trace away and wandered over to Deuce.  
"You better watch your back!" Trace shouted at him. Droog turned around. "The Midnight Crew doesn't like competition!"  
Droog just smiled.

Later that night, Droog and Deuce were back at the hideout, plus fifty boonbucks, courtesy of Fin. They, Slick, and Boxcars, were reviewing the notes about the Felt they received, courtesy of Trace.  
"I almost can't believe Fin spilled straight up everything," Slick studied the papers. "Now that's what I call convenient."  
"We were pretty lucky that way, huh," Deuce said. "Especially since a certain someone decided to ad-lib."  
"Deuce, what we did in and of itself was a major gambit," Droog sighed. "If we went with your full plan..."  
"You could have consulted me at least."  
"Probably."  
"Jerk."  
"That's enough, ladies" Slick butted in. "I'm gonna make copies of this for the rest of ya. Next step is picking the least repulsive green torsos."


	17. Negotiations Part 1: Quarters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slick chats up Quarters. Quarters doesn’t join, but agrees on tenuous ceasefire between the two of them. Slick also tries to eat as much as Quarters.

Slick had, perhaps unwisely, allowed his crew mates free reign over the main phase of the plan. The goal was to swing some of the Felt over to their side. As the Felt saw each other as more akin to business partners; individuals with mutual goals, it was simply a matter of the Crew offering up what they could. Certain members of the Felt had stronger connections, even friendships or romances, but that was the exception, not the rule. Unlike those four in the Crew, who had been together since exile, who had seen each other through their triumphs and nadirs, who knew each other's darkest secrets (but were polite enough to pretend otherwise), most of the Felt had been assembled after the Midnight City was already up and running. Most of them didn't even live in the mansion, despite there being more than enough room available. They weren't a family. Slick and the rest of the Crew reasoned that bribing or blackmailing a few of them should be a snap. Well, they were correct, but as the old saying goes, "Be careful what you wish for."

Through recent shenanigans, they had all acquired notes detailing the Felt's future whereabouts- each and every one of them. Then, they all went their separate ways, concocting plots to attract their enemies. Slick chose Quarters, heading straight for the big guns. Droog would chat up Matchsticks. And Boxcars and Deuce went after Itchy, fully unaware of their boss's misgivings towards him.

To approach Quarters, Slick opted for attempting just so on the other man's turf. The idea being: it is a well-known fact that in any skirmish, whoever is more familiar with the surrounding area has the upper hand. And what better way than to gain the upper hand, than by letting your target think they have it? Yes, it made perfect sense. Sheer brilliance.

Quarters' "turf", as Slick learned from the notes, was a secret base of sorts. Technically, it was more of a glorified shack, but if you asked Quarters, he would call it a base. _Technically,_ technically, if you asked, he would shoot you for knowing too much and getting mouthy. Quarters fancied himself something of a criminal mastermind. His base was filled with amateur robotics and illegal weapons, but his true passion and claim to fame lied in his collection of poisons. He originally had a lab in the mansion, but after one too many complaints about the noxious odors and one too many accidents caused by the malfunctioning electronics, he was forced to engage in his hobbies elsewhere.

At least, it was merely a shack the last time Fin, from whom they received the intel, had seen it. That was approximately forever ago, judging by its current state. It had been built upon (presumably by either Quarters himself or one of his metal assistants) and where brick once formed the exterior was replaced with cold, uninviting steel. It was the kind of building one would pass by everyday without any remark, but when it was brought to their attention, they could scarcely believe they hadn't noticed it.

Slick drove around it a couple times (using a stolen car), sizing it up. Once he was in, everything would go fine. Getting in was the tricky part. Should he try sneaking in, or just knock on the door? As implausible as the latter sounded, it also sounded like the only option possible. The only windows were so high, Slick would need a grappling hook or ladder to get to them. There was no way he was going to climb up anything that high one-handed. Not to mention, the windows were probably locked, and the glass, unbreakable. The only other option (aside from a possible secret trapdoor which could have been literally anywhere) was the front entrance.

Slick parked the car as close as possible, not concerned if it got towed away. He searched the front door for a handle, but came up dry. There was some sort of intercom system. He tried his luck with that.  
"Hey, let me in!"  
"Who in Godhead's name are you?" Quarters reply was swift, but with more alarm than he would care to admit. "And how did you find this place?"  
"It's Spades Slick." He assumed telling the truth would complicate matters less. "Never mind about the rest."  
Quarters let out an obviously fake laugh.  
"You must be smoking something strong if you think I'm letting you in here!"  
"Fine. I'll leave," Slick huffed, struggling to think of anything convincing. _Don't tell me my plan's going down the tubes before it even gets underway._ "And maybe I'll, uh, throw a lit match and a bottle of liquor at this place before I go."  
"What do you expect that would accomplish? These walls cannot be penetrated by the flames."  
"Are you sure you wanna chance that?" Slick smirked and started waggling his eyebrows before remembering that Quarters couldn't see him. There was an agitated sigh from inside.  
"Look, I'm in the middle of a project, and I don't have time for this rival gang tomfoolery. If I let you in, will you behave yourself?"  
Slick had to take a minute to let that all sink in. He just annoyed Quarters into submission. _It was so simple; why didn't I think of that from the very beginning?_  
"Well?" Quarters barked impatiently.  
"Yeah, I'll be on my best behavior, Mr. Quarters," Slick answered, speaking like a child. "Now open up, 'cause there's something we need to discuss."  
"I'm already regretting this," Quarters said as he pressed a button to let Slick inside.

The front door slid open in a slow, mechanical motion. It produced the slightest hum; far less noise than Slick would have expected from it. He stepped inside, only to find himself in a small hallway. The clean, white walls and tiled floor, plus the arresting ceiling lights, were such a contrast to the Alternian night sky that Slick had to cover his eye as soon as he was in. Aside from those lights, there was nothing in the room but a small table, a tiny, ominous red light embedded in the wall, and another door. Slick walked up to the second door, but nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden sound of Quarters' voice.

"Remove your accoutrements."  
"What?"  
"It means 'clothes', you plebeian."  
"I know what the fuck it means," Slick growled. "An' I ain't strippin'. Pervert. Don't think I don't see that video camera in the wall."  
"Ooh, you figured out that I'm watching you. Aren't you the smartest?" Quarters drawled. "And I see your ego hasn't diminished any. I feel no lust for you. Only mistrust. Now, you can either turn out your pockets and remove your clothes, or you can leave the way you came."

Slick shuffled his feet for a bit and grumbled before giving in to Quarters' demands. It wasn't that he was opposed to the idea of get naked. Sometimes, if Droog didn't stop him, he'd go out streaking. In fact, he was banned from coming within ten feet of the Capitol Building for just that reason. What he did not like was the idea of being naked on camera. But there was no way Slick was going to leave without getting what he came for, so he started on his clothes.

First, he made a show of turning out his jacket pockets, both inside and out. He tossed his jacket on the floor. Second, he took off his shoes and socks, shaking them out before Quarters had the chance to instruct him to. He half hoped there was a rolled up wad of cash he put in there and forgot about, but no. Third, he turned out his pants pockets. He began to unbutton his shirt next. It wasn't until Quarters shouted at him that he wasn't doing a strip show, and that he should get moving, that Slick realized how slowly he was undressing. No. Not just slowly. Reluctantly.

It had been Slick's intention to get some form of exercise in, but with the plotting everyone was doing, it kind of slipped his mind. Droog's, as well. Slick didn't think he had put on any more weight; his new shirt did feel slightly tighter around his belly than it should have, but that was probably thanks to the large dinner Boxcars had fixed just before they all left. Still, he couldn't help but be paranoid. If his worries were justified, he would have to confront that. Self-evaluation, Slick preferred to avoid at all costs, and now was definitely not the time.

No sense in having Quarters get the idea that Slick had body image issues. In response to the nagging and verbal prodding, Slick just whined that he was having a hard enough time removing his clothes with one hand. He finished unbuttoning his shirt- in any other circumstance, he would have ripped right through the buttons. Consciously, he wanted to keep the shirt in decent condition, since Droog paid for it. Subconsciously, he wanted to take as long as possible, just to be a nuisance. He slipped his arm out of the sleeve, letting the shirt fall the rest of the way off. Using his hand and (delicately!) his teeth, he folded it up and placed it on the table. After removing his belt and unzipping his fly, he paused.

"Do I gotta take off my skivvies too?"  
"Yes."  
"Freak."  
"Just do it. I'm no more thrilled about this than you are."  
"Suuuuure, sure"  
"If that's what you need to tell yourself," Quarters began, his voice cutting. He let Slick fill in the rest. Slick just shut his mouth and shoved down his pants and underwear less than gracefully. He was about to fold them, too, but his increasingly boiling bad mood stopped him. He threw the rest of his clothes at the table, and didn't bother adjusting them when they slid off.  
"You gunna open the damn door now or what?" Slick snapped. "Oh, let me guess- there's gunna be another door, and you're gunna make me jump through more hoops."

There was a lull in the conversation, then a beep, and a small opening inside the second door appeared.  
"One more hoop," Quarters admitted. The small opening was approximately eye level (a bit higher than that for Slick), and a glass vial had been placed inside it. Fizzy, yellow liquid swirled inside it. "Drink that."  
"Ew, it's piss, isn't it?" Slick stuck out his tongue. "I knew you were a freak."  
"That's your first concern? Not that it might be sulfuric acid?"  
"I don’t care," Slick crossed his arms. "That's not touching my lips."  
"I don't believe you have a choice in the matter," Quarters said softly, the slightest hint of menace permeating his voice.  
"Oh yeah?" Slick started gathering up his things. "I ain't putting up with this anymore. I'm out." He stepped towards the first door, and jumped back when a loud buzzer sounded off.  
"The door is now locked, in case you were wondering," Quarters continued, his voice still disturbingly soft. "I confess, I have forgotten what troublemakers you and your little friends are. So you can stay right where you are, or drink from the vial. But I can't have you running off to regroup. It's your choice."  
"...What?"  
"You know perfectly well what I said. Now, I have work to do, so I'm not to going to sit by and wait for you to make up your mind. I suggest you drink now, because it could be, oh, tomorrow, by the time I check up on you again."

 _Fight him on his own turf, hurr durr, that's brilliant._ Slick slammed his head against a wall. He grabbed the vial, being more than a little rough in doing so. Some of the liquid splashed. It didn't burn a hole through the floor, which was a good sign. He sniffed it. Slightly unpleasant, but nothing to arouse suspicion. He dipped the tip of his claw in, but nothing happened. Last, he tried shadow magic, but that would only get him so far. He determined that it was not magically tampered with in any way, but still could not discern if it was safe for consumption.

 _Welp, either I can take a chance with the drink and die immediately, or starve and die later._ Slick weighed the options. _Heh, no point in procrastinating._ He took a swig of the liquid and shuddered. It wasn't urine or any other bodily fluid, but its taste was worse than its smell.  
"Keep drinking," Quarters encouraged. Slick shrugged and obeyed. There wasn't really any backing out. He put the vial to his mouth and tried to miss his tongue. As he did, his arm started to disappear.  
"What the hell?!" he nearly choked and stopped, holding the vial at arm's length. His arm was gone, save his skeleton. No, it was still there. He could feel it on the glass. It was just invisible. "Wait, that's all the drink does? Why the fuck didn’t you just say so?" He drank the rest of it, letting his whole body disappear as well, leaving only bones.

"Good," Quarters' disembodied voice returned. "I can see you're not smuggling anything."  
Slick completely ignored him. "This is just about the most awesome thing that has happened to me this entire sweep."  
"Don't get too excited," Quarters warned. "It'll wear off in a few seconds."  
"What?" With that, Slick's clawed feet came back into opacity, and his legs gradually followed. "Oh." He tried not to be too disappointed. He reached for his clothes, and since Quarters didn't stop him, he put them back on. The second door opened up, leading the way to what could only have been a large warehouse.

The atmosphere inside was chilling and impersonal, and the ceiling was improbably lofty. A disabled, monstrous mecha stood slouching in a corner, so tall, Slick had to crane his neck to see its head. There were a dozen or more abandoned workbenches. Open books, tools, and scrap metal were scattered about in some form of organized chaos. Despite the presence of a plethora of half-finished projects, most of the space was occupied by nothingness.

Anybody else would have had the sense to leave the messes well enough alone. Spades Slick was not anybody else. He stomped in like he owned the place, paying no heed to the way his footsteps echoed noisily. One item caught his attention- something sharp and metallic. He walked up to it, and just as the tips of his claws grazed the handle, a voice made him pull back.

"I wouldn't touch that if I were you," Quarters reprimanded from about six o'clock, spatially speaking. Slick turned to see the towering Felt exit a smaller, closed off area.  
"That knife is meant to electrocute its victim, but it doesn't always work. It's knocked me on my ass quite a few times. I can only imagine what it would do to you." Before he shut the door, Slick noticed strange technicolor fumes billowing about.  
"Are those fumes gunna seep out the crack under the door?" Slick pointed, eyebrow raised apprehensively.  
"Most likely, but it's perfectly safe. In a manner of speaking; it won't kill us." He jerked his thumb back towards the room. "That's my recreational lab. The real lab is hidden."  
"Oh- hey, wait just a minute, bub!" Slick reached forward and poked Quarters in the chest. "You weren't busy at all! You were just getting fucked up!"  
Quarters rolled his eyes and hissed. "That's not what I meant." The look on his face and his body language told Slick that Quarters had explained himself multiple times in the past, and was sick and tired of doing so. So Slick waited patiently for the explanation, head cocked to the side.  
"I make 'em and sell 'em, but don't use 'em!" Quarters threw his hands up the air. "Satisfied?"  
"What's your going price?" Slick started to push open the door. Quarters lifted him up and parked him elsewhere.  
"Ugh." Quarters rubbed his lower back and ignored Slick's glare. "Didn't you have some reason for interrupting me? Because right now, I'm working on something for a client whom I'd rather not disappoint."  
"Oh yeah," Slick tore his attention away from the fascinating room and its fluorescent aroma and its intoxicating ultramarines and irises and cobalts and _Oh geez, I had no idea all these colors existed..._ "I have a proposition for ya." He glanced around nonchalantly. "Anyplace where you wanna discuss it?"

Quarters gestured to a long workbench embedded into an alcove in the side of one wall. As they came closer, Slick saw that it wasn't a workbench at all, or if it had been at one point, it was no longer. It was a bar, and it looked fully stocked. Robots served as bartenders, cleaning glasses, then dishing out generic sounding gossip and platitudes about the weather. They weren't as advanced as the ones engineered by Alternia's native residents, but they got the job done, and efficiently at that. A row of pristine stools lined the front, save one with a bit of wear. That was Quarters', and after he claimed it, he invited Slick to join him. Slick looked back and forth at all the seats.

"You get a lot of company?" he joked. Quarters didn't bother acknowledging the insult, not even considering it to be one.  
"It looks better this way."

Slick climbed onto the stool to his right. _If Quarters would rather hang out here than in the manor, it's no wonder. Everything's tailored to his size._  
"Why don't we talk over some drinks?" Quarters suggested. "My treat." He pressed a button on the side of the bar to summon one of the robots. It whizzed over and asked in its computerized voice, "HOW MAY I SERVE YOU"  
"A scotch on the rocks for me, and-" he nodded to Slick.  
"Same," Slick quickly answered.  
"THAT IS ALL" the robot asked for clarification. "COME ON LIVE A LITTLE"  
"She gets a little testy when she doesn't get to use her skills," Quarters whispered, passing Slick a drink and appetizer menu.  
"'She'," Slick repeated incredulously. The robot's eyes turned bright red and her head swiveled around to meet the patrons.  
"Hahaha, we were just talking about what a lovely lady you are!" Quarters said, quickly and awkwardly, but not enough for the robot to tell. "Isn't that right, Slick?" He grabbed Slick's head and nodded it up and down.  
"Yeah, a real knockout," Slick looked back down at the menu. He hadn't had chocolate in a while, so the mudslide looked divine. He ordered that, plus a bottomless tray of random fried junk. The drinks arrived first. Against his better judgment, Slick drank his a little too fast. He stopped when he felt a light wooziness permeate his brain. Getting completely hammered in this sort of environment was not a wise course of action. Not to mention, he needed to have his thoughts in order to get on Quarters' good side. This was really more Droog's field of expertise, and even he knew that sobriety was the key.

As they waited for the appetizers, Quarters answered any queries Slick had about the warehouse, within reason. Slick made vague observations about how wonderful it must be, as compared to the cramped mansion with all the constant ticking. Quarters agreed. Slick smirked.  
"Everything's just the way you like it," he commented. "Nobody wanderin' around an' messin' with your stuff."  
"That is certainly true."

Slick kept prying, eventually getting the other man to more-or-less confess his disdain for the Felt as a whole. The most-definitely-a-female robot placed a tray in front of them. It was piled with hot wings, cheese sticks, and food items which could no longer be considered vegetables, nutrition-wise. Slick dug in without invitation. He was still a little full from dinner, but _oh godhead look how gold and crispy everything is-_ Quarters started to reach for the platter and Slick instinctively growled. He gruffly apologized and backed off. While the contents of the platter rapidly diminished and grew again and again, Slick finally made his offer: join the Midnight Crew. His primary argument being that Quarters' scientific knowledge combined with his own arcane knowledge could create a partnership to be reckoned with. Quarters was silent, drumming his fingers on the table. Slick waited with bated breath. He didn't know the man well enough to tell if that was a good sign. Quarters reached casually for another wing, and Slick did likewise. He gnawed on it cautiously. Throughout their conversation, he had been unconsciously keeping pace with Quarters, who possessed an understandably stupendous appetite. Slick had a hazy awareness of the strain his shirt buttons were under, but as long as that robot kept 'em coming, he was going to keep cramming 'em down his gullet. To hell with lobster or homecooked labors of love, these greasy bastardizations of food were the best thing Slick ever tortured himself with.

"I assume you wouldn't be able to pay me as much as my current employer," Quarters broke the silence at last. They finished off the current supply of food, and the robot bartender swiftly replaced it. Slick looked upon it with light-headed bliss, hoping Quarters didn't hear the embarrassing protests from his overstuffed belly.  
"Well, no," Slick admitted. "but since I own the majority of the city, that won't really be a problem." He grunted slightly, tugging his waistband down, and contemplating how off-putting it would be to remove the belt entirely. He sat back, finding that removed some of the pressure. "Just tell everyone you're with me, and you're set. The world is your precious gemstone generating bivalve."

Quarters started drumming his fingers again. He allowed Slick to polish off the current platter, (or rather, didn't stop Slick from doing so), and held up a hand when the robot tried to refill it. Slick frowned even as his now painfully bloated gut cheered in relief. The bartender inquired if they wanted anything else. Quarters declined, save a single glass of water. Slick licked his teeth. A good taste didn't necessarily mean a good aftertaste. He ordered a strawberry mojito to wash it down. He was too tipsy from the first drink- or the fact that all the blood rushed from his head to digest the vast amount of food he just ate- to care if the new one was emasculating.

"I have to say, it's a nice change to meet someone who has an appreciation for my talents, and doesn't just write me off as an eccentric," Quarters said, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. "That said, I'm not one to jump on some idea just because some young upstart like you tells me that I should. Everything's working fine for me at the present time, but I'll tell you what." He leaned in closer, speaking in a low voice, not so that nobody else would hear, but so that Slick would take extra care to hear. "If you can figure out a way to kill that smarmy cradle robber Doc Scratch, I will defect to your little club in the tick of a clock."

The second round of drinks arrived. Slick considered Quarters' counter-offer, but he wasn't done.  
"Until that time, I propose a ceasefire between me and your gang. If you harm me or if I witness you harming my associates, I will retaliate. Does that sound fair?"  
Slick nodded silently, his mouth preoccupied by straw.  
"Excellent." Quarters rose from his spot. "I can honestly say I'm glad we spoke. It wasn't the waste I thought it would be." He pushed up his sleeve to check his watch. "But I do really need to get back to work, if you'll excuse me." Slick put his hands on the bar, as though motioning to leave. "Please! Take your time."  
"I ain't gonna bother ya here?"  
"Not if you keep to yourself," Quarters confirmed. "I believe you know where the door is. Just pay the lady a compliment before you go." With that, he took his leave, patting Slick on the shoulder with one strong claw on his way.

Slick focused on his drink. Something told him that if he left it half-empty, that robot would turn a laser beam on him. He could almost feel her sinister gaze, drilling holes into him. He gingerly sucked down the remains of the mojito, wishing he could enjoy it more. But his stomach was already stretched tight, and each gulp stretched it further. When he could see the wood grain of bar through the bottom of the glass, he swallowed the last drop and sat back. He opened his mouth to compliment the bartender as instructed, but a sudden hiccup escaped instead.

"You really know your craft," Slick managed to get out. It took him a number of tries to get up and out the door, his stomach groaning all the while. Once he reached the car, he realized he was in no condition (for a number of reasons) to drive all the way back to the hideout. He instead took it to a nearby abandoned lot to sober up. He leaned back in the seat, only to have something poke him in the side. He pawed around the seat, but came up dry. Then he reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a vial. It was labeled "appetite suppressant"

Slick snickered and pulled out his cellphone.  
"thx ahole" he texted to Quarters. After that, he turned it off, not caring if he got a reply, and not wanting to be disturbed. His aching stomach churned, laced with agony, so he reclined his seat a bit. Then, he took off his belt and tossed it aside, sighing and wincing simultaneously. It wasn't quite enough, so he unzipped his pants- there was the comfort he was looking for!- and his gut surged forward, no longer hindered. He clutched his now distended middle with his hand, marveling at how round he let it get without really trying. Then it dawned on him: those snacks had to be incredibly caloric. He bit back a melodramatic sob, attempted to calculate how much exercise he'd need to do to offset it, and gave up when it became too hard to concentrate.

_I wish Droog were here. Sure, he'd chew me out, but at least he'd make me feel better._

He delicately rubbed circles into his flesh, hissing when he accidentally scratched his soft shell.

_Droog would know how to use those fingers._

His touch became gentler in all the right ways and firmer in all the right ways as he imagined his partner being the one to help him out.

_Those goddamn gorgeous fingers._

His stomach was beginning to feel much better; now that it wasn't demanding his immediate attention.

_Those perfect fingers, Godhead, so amazing to feel on my-_

His hand drifted down his stomach, lower, and lower...


	18. Negotiations Part 2: Matchsticks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Droog chats up Matchsticks. Or, he tries to, but Matchsticks gets him stoned first.

Droog wished he was back at the hideout.

Instead, he was driving at a shellbeast's pace along a road teeming with unexpected curves, while fiddling with the air conditioning at every opportunity. Now and again he would swear he felt a rush of cool air, but it might have been his imagination. Rolling down the window was out of the question. Not only was the area heavy with bugs, the driver's side window was just a smeared piece of glass held in place with duct tape. (Droog suspected most of the maintenance done on the car involved duct tape.) It was a humid night, the sky forming a dark blanket over the city. Although the temperature wasn't particularly high, the atmosphere was stifling. It was the kind of night that Droog would prefer to spend relaxing at home with a good novel, maybe have a drink or two. Instead, he was lugging this gasping, rattling, hunk of junk metal that had the gall to call itself a vehicle over to some lime green halfwit's pad.

It wasn't his car, of course. Droog would never allow _his_ to fall into such a state of disrepair. In fact, his own car, loyal as she was, was in the shop. The brakes weren't behaving properly, and at the very first sign of something amiss, Droog took her in- mostly to guarantee there had been no foul play by one of his enemies. Droog's car was number three on the list of things one should never touch, after his shoes and his moirail.

Speaking of which, it was Slick's car he had borrowed for the current mission. Borrowed, and conveniently forgotten to ask permission for or even inform the man about at all. But Slick would be fine. No doubt he was going his own way in whatever car caught his eye. Even if there was someone behind the driver's seat. And it was still in motion. Slick didn't let little details like that bog him down.

Besides, if he inadvertently forced Slick to chase down some other means of transportation, it was only just. The bastard deserved it after the shoe incident. A while back, he somehow managed to lose his own pair in the Felt mansion. The next time he decided to go out, he recalled the missing aspect of his ensemble. He had more than one pair, but most were stashed in the black hole that was his closet. In his eagerness to get some fresh air, he grabbed the first shoes he saw- Droog's. Granted, he had returned them in impeccable condition. But that was only because he had paid to get them cleaned after stomping around in mud puddles for the latter part of that night. How could Droog tell, if Slick had returned the shoes as he had found them? Well, Droog just had a feeling for those sorts of things. Plus, Slick's claws were too long and they scratched the insides of the soles.

The longer he drove, though, the more Droog wished he hadn't been so petty and vengeful. He half considered abandoning the car somewhere out of the way (He'd be doing Slick a favor) and flagging down a taxi cab. Sure, he'd spend the whole ride getting violently ill from riding in the backseat, and then he'd have to shell out major boonbucks to clean the upholstery, but anything had to be better this driving this piece of crap car.

Splat.

Splat.

Splat, splat, splat, splat splsplsplsplsplsplt.

The car was bombarded. Not with sweet, purifying raindrops, of course. The Godhead Pickle Inspector would never be so merciful to Droog. Those were just more of those tiny, insufferable insects. Droog had driven through an irate swarm of the little guys, and they responded by dive-bombing the windshield. He turned the windshield wipers on them.

"Now I get to stare at bug guts for the rest of the trip. Fantastic," he complained. He tried squirting wiper fluid on them, but surprise surprise, nothing came out. He seethed and issued a prolonged list a curses towards whomever he could think of. Even if they weren't at fault. Even if they had nothing to do with his current situation. Most of all, he cursed himself. He really should have known to get directions to Matchsticks' place from someone other than Matchsticks.

Droog had chosen that Felt for his agreeable personality. Matchsticks didn't tend to make enemies, for some reason. No one could seem to muster up the requisite fury or animosity to form such malicious connections with the man. Therefore, getting him on the Crew's side should be a cinch. At least, he might be willing to play double agent. Droog would figure out the details at the party, whenever he got there, at any rate. The directions there had been posted online, which Droog found when he borrowed Slick's computer. (Judging by the number of porn and furry porn popups which assaulted the screen, Droog could hazard a guess that Slick was as cautious with his Crosbytop as he was with his car.) They started off sensibly, but a few of the sections had corrections made to them. Some were made needlessly. Then there were reference points of establishments which no longer existed. And at multiple points, Matchsticks would go off on tangents about said establishments. At the end, Droog honestly wasn't certain if the directions were still on the road to Matchsticks' place, or some sort of instructional guide to "freeing your mind." It took a fair bit of driving before Droog was confident that he was on the right track.

Not that it was smooth sailing from that point onward, or anything. Oh, no. Along some highway, Droog got caught behind a massive number of cars. He turned on the radio for a report, but as luck (or lack thereof) would have it, he couldn't hear a thing. Although, this time it was no fault of the car. He was trapped a no man's land where no station came through completely clearly. Eventually, he gave up and tuned in to the jazz and blues station Slick had introduced him to earlier. If he strained, he could almost make out a hint of a melody. Hmm. There was something familiar about that one. Some memory preserved at the back of his mind, and whenever he tried to focus on it, it extinguished itself. Then, quick as a flash, it returned to pester him yet again.

He got to deal with that for the entirety of the traffic jam. When it let up, he got to graduate from being stationary to moving at a crawl. That suited Droog just fine. He had no taste for driving like a bat out of hell, and this would give him ample opportunity to determine the cause of the situation.

Some jokers (presumably on the way to the same party) got the bright idea to get prematurely inebriated. They found themselves in a small pile-up instead, and most wound up injured, if not dead. The crash in and of itself wasn't enough to cause the jam, but the sheer amount of fascinated stoners who had to stop and rubberneck it were.

The final nail in the coffin was the long line of waterfowlings that chose to cross right in front of Droog. He waited an agonizingly long time for them to pass- then he remembered he wasn't driving his own car. With a dark laugh, he slammed on the accelerator.

He made a mental note to get the car washed as soon as possible. It was ugly enough as it was without the front bumper and tires being coated in blood and feathers.

By the time he arrived at his destination, the party was already in full swing. It was an open house type of shindig, so people would wind up at the doorstep all hours of the night. Not to mention, for one so fashionable as Droog, promptness was not only not a necessity, but the opposite was preferable. Plus, if most of the potential participants were already present, they were likely involved in conversation or activity. That would make Droog's task of locating the host far easier, since he could slip by unnoticed.

Matchsticks' house was actually a mansion. This fact would have surprised Droog had he not known about it beforehand. He seemed more the type who would be perfectly content to live in a run-down apartment, or even in the streets. Technically, that was still true, but since a larger home provided more room for friends and strangers (or friends he hadn't met), he chose to stick with his current place of residence. And it gave him an interesting story to tell people whenever they asked how he acquired it. It went as follows: a while back, he was trying to come up with a more efficient way to assemble his drugs of choice, and designed a prototype for an instrument to do just that. In the end, it was decided that the tool was better suited to assembling snack foods. Someone with affluence and influence bought the rights to the invention, and Matchsticks was sitting pretty. He temporarily went into early retirement (as this occurred prior to his joining the Felt) and purchased the mansion.

Well, it's interesting when he tells it. At least, that's what his audiences always say.

This mansion may not have been as extravagant as the Felt's, and many rooms were in a state of disarray, if not disrepair. But, at the same time, it wasn't monochromatic and it wasn't filled to the brim with noisy timepieces, so Droog considered it an improvement.

Invitations to the party had been distributed via word of mouth, and that word had traveled far. Cars lined not only the sides of the street, but filled in the middle as well. Some were even parked right on the front lawn. Droog parked half a block away out of impulse. Normally, he did so to discourage would-be vandals, but that wasn't a concern any longer. Hell, even if they tried to steal the car, they wouldn't have much luck. She could be rather finicky, and only those in the Crew knew how to coax her into starting. Still, the walk gave Droog the chance to get some fresh air and stretch his legs.

Some partiers had started a bonfire on the lawn, and upon seeing Droog approach, they tried to sway him over with promises of marshmallows and ghost stories. Droog shoved off one of them when he grabbed his arm. The obstinate partier (who was under some sort of influence) just giggled like a hyena and grabbed at Droog again.

"C'mon man, we need some new material," he insisted. Droog hissed but allowed himself to be dragged over. Someone shoved a stick in his face, impaled on a melted, partially burnt lump of sugar. He took the whole thing.  
"You want new material? Ever hear the story of the ghost made of flames?"  
There were curious whispers all around.  
"Well, you will soon." Droog whacked the stick upside the head of the first offending partier, knocking him down. Then he grabbed him by the shirt collar and threw him into the fire. He finished by pulling off the marshmallow, popping it into his mouth, and walking to the front porch.

A familiar face was connected to the individual who was blocking the entrance.  
"SG?" Droog squinted, his eyes adjusting to the darkness after glancing at the bonfire. The intimidating female glared at him, then gave a curt nod. "You're really moving up in the world, then," he commented. Her upper lip curled. She held out a hand.  
"I.D., please," she growled.  
"You're kidding," Droog protested. "You know damn well who I am."  
"You're not on the list." She stepped closer and loomed over him. "So hand over your I.D., or get lost."  
"There is no list." Droog folded his arms. They stared each other down for a long second, then the Gatekeeper backed off.  
"It's good to know some things haven't changed. You're still as much of a thorn in my side as you were on Derse."  
"Likewise." She stepped aside and opened the door for Droog. In the front room, he was met with raucous laughter and drunkards sloppily fighting. It was more a display of dominance than actual violence. He tried to slink off to the next room when an errant fist grazed the side of his head. He whipped around to find a petite, yet athletic Prospitian looking up at him. The Erudite Martinet bared her teeth like a wild animal.  
"C'mon! Let's see what ya got!"

Droog rolled his eyes. One day he was going to learn to stop being such a people pleaser. He punched her in the gut, and when she was doubled over, he grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, and slammed her face into a windowsill. She flailed around the whole time, kicking him in the knee. He hissed, but let go. She slumped down onto the floor, and Droog sauntered through another door.  
"Holy shit! Are you okay, EM?" Someone rushed to her aid and helped her wipe the blood off her face.  
"Did you see who that was?" A grin spread across her face. She was oblivious to the way it made cracks in her lips spread wider. "That was Diamonds Droog. The Draconian fucking Dignitary! And he just beat the shit outa me!" She slid back down with a sigh. "So awesome!"

There was a respectful moment of stillness as everyone listened to to her. As soon as they were sure she was okay, there was a clamor of demands in Droog's direction.  
"Beat me up next!"  
"I'll let you throw the first punch!"  
"I bet you can't take me!"  
"Oh Godhead, please, I will pay you to fight me!"  
They pushed their way towards the door and nearly tumbled through. Droog turned to them, shoved them back into the front room, and slammed the door in their faces.  
"The rest of your aren't worthy of my time," he explained coldly through the door. On the opposite side, the Martinet smiled triumphantly.

The next room contained a small group of people participating in a drinking contest. They were incredibly invested in it, and Droog passed without notice.

The room after that was where the druggies chose to congregate. These ones were further along than the people outside. When Droog entered, most were unaware. Only one followed his movements, but said nothing until he left.  
"Did you See that guy?" he pointed out. "He was wearing a... uh, head shoe"  
A minute later, another druggie giggled uncontrollably.  
"What's so funny?"  
A third druggie started giggling, but calmed herself down and waved her hand. "It's called a head glove, stupid!"  
"...Oh yeah."

He was nearing his ultimate destination; he could smell it. Literally. Matchsticks partook of some impressively potent recreational substances. The next room was filled with people sprawled out on the ground, unconscious. As he stepped over them, an arm lazily swung around and smacked him in the leg. Well, a few of them weren't unconscious.  
"Why don'tcha join us, sweetie?" purred a voice from the floor.  
"Not if you were the last carapace on Alternia," Droog purred back.  
"Ouch."  
"Don't listen to him. You were amazing."  
"Were? We're already finished?"  
"Well, I-"  
"Tch! Get off me!"

At long last, Droog found the man of the hour. Matchsticks was lounging in a beanbag chair, busy conversing with a gaggle of other heavyweights in the user community. He jovially beckoned Droog inside as soon as he saw him.  
"Come in, dude," he insisted.  
"Whoa. Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa," the man to his left interrupted. "Isn't he in that rival gang?"  
Matchsticks just sat back and put his hands behind his head. "He may be my gang's enemy, but tonight, in this house, we're all friends."  
"So like, here, our slates are wiped clean?"  
"Yeah." Matchsticks pointed at him. "That is so deep."  
Droog cleared his throat.  
"Oh sorry." Matchsticks got up and ushered Droog in. "You can have my spot if you like. or on the floor. I got this comfy-ass shag carpet up in here."  
"Down in here you mean, since it's on the floor."  
"Whoa, you are like, on a roll, bro!"  
"I'll just stand, if that's alright." Droog looked warily at the carpet- who knew what horrors it held?- and sneered at the grimy chair.  
"Do what makes you feel right." Matchsticks clamped his claw down on Droog's shoulder. "That reminds me, you got here a bit too early. Quarters is gonna be sending some primo shit our way."  
"Uh-huh." Droog rubbed his temples. "Look, I'm not here to party. I need to speak with you."  
"Then speak, man!" Matchsticks said, sounding almost sensitive. "No need to stress about it! Here." He handed Droog a lit cigarette, and Droog eagerly took it.

As it turned out, it wasn't a cigarette.


	19. Negotiations Part 3: Itchy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boxcars and Deuce chat up Itchy. They get him to spill a bunch of info, then they threaten him unless he joins.

Boxcars sat at his antique desk in his dimly lit, spacious bedroom. The "bed" part was a misnomer. The only bed capable of supporting Boxcars' heft could not fit through the doorway, and he didn't have the patience to build one out of parts. He did, however, have the patience to lay a couple blankets on top of the box of parts and call that a bed. The "spacious" part was not a misnomer. It was easily the largest room in their hideout. When Slick transformed and enchanted the sewers into a spot more habitable, he had graciously allowed Boxcars ownership of that room, after Boxcars stood in front of the door and blocked it with his body.

He tapped his pencil against the edge of his desk, against the edge of his chair, against the edge of his fangs. He pulled it away, dropping it in front of him. The floor was already littered with the remains of numerous pencils, carved with his canines into intricate designs out boredom and procrastination. He had one left in decent condition; it need not go the way of all the others.

He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, finding it more comfortable to go index finger to pinky, rather than the other way around. He wondered why he was focusing on that. _Maybe I need to walk a bit ta clear my head._ He got up and walked around his desk a few times, then turned and walked in the other direction to offset any dizziness. He considered the possibility that the lack of proper light was allowing his mind to drift, and replaced the bulb in his lamp with one of higher wattage. It was too bright, so he put the old one back.

He sat back down (but not before making a fuss over the seat cushion, which had shifted) and slouched over the piece of paper in front of him. It featured photographs of the face of every member of the Felt- except for Snowman. That space was occupied by a picture of her chest, which had been the only way Slick could stand to look at the paper without wanting to tear the whole thing to shreds. Then he had made copies for Boxcars, Droog, and Deuce without correcting his replacement.

Boxcars had drawn thick X’s over Clover and Die's photos and question marks over Sawbuck's. Then, he had drawn spiral shaped hairs coming out of Crowbar's upper lip. (The name of such a physical feature escaped him, but he had seen it on ancient troll collectibles and found it highly amusing, if a bit unsightly.) He did the same with Quarters, and found it to be an improvement. After defacing a few more, he had turned his attention to the likenesses of Itchy and Doze. Captions depicting expressions for redrom adorned their photos, along with doodles of Boxcars' own symbol.

He was running out of ways to distract himself. His right hand reached for the second desk drawer, and he lightly rapped it with his left. The top drawer held office supplies, including a collection of good fountain pens. Those were not to be touched unless necessity was absolute. They were primarily reserved for signing and forging documents. The second drawer held special edition copies of his favorite romance novels. Some were even signed. He kept them hidden to protect them from those who would break their binding. The third drawer held a pile of "Red Cheeks" magazines. Only he knew that those magazines didn't fill the entire drawer. They were supported by a false bottom. Underneath that were song lyrics and notes not yet fit for an audience's consumption, amateur attempts at novel writing better left buried, and flushed letters that would never see the light of day. But you didn't hear any of that from me.

His assignment was to choose a Felt to recruit. It wasn't easy, because most of them he couldn't stand to look at, and the rest he bore at least a simmering dislike for. At one point he considered selecting his target via rolls of a die, but his tendency to roll boxcars prevented him. No sense in using that approach if he could determine the outcome so easily.

Just when he was about to flip a coin onto the paper to see where it landed, there was a knock at his door. The door was already open, but Deuce liked to be polite.

"Boxcars? Can I come in?" he asked.  
"Yeah, get in here," Boxcars answered, welcoming his presence eagerly. Deuce obliged. Boxcars swiveled in his chair to find Deuce clutching a ream of papers.  
"Are you sure I'm not interrupting you?"  
"Ah, no more than anything else." He shook his head, then slid his palm down his face in frustration. Deuce got ready to back away, just in case. But his friend just chuckled, which he took as a good sign.  
"Have you chosen your target yet?" Deuce inquired, making his way over to Boxcars' side.  
"Not yet. I'm tryin' ta decide which one has the least punchable face."  
"So, that's a 'no' then? Good, That's what I needed to hear." Deuce hoisted himself onto Boxcars' lap and slammed his papers down onto the desk. "I've got an idea, and I'll need your help."

Their destination was the Felt Mansion, and they had a taxi escort them there- off one block. Seeing no sense in drawing extra attention to themselves, they opted not to take one of their traditional black-as-night automobiles. (There weren't any available at the time besides, as Droog was currently using Slick's, and Slick had wrecked the gang's official car in an incident he refused to describe.) The plan was simple, if unconventional. Boxcars' role in it, aside from carrying all of Deuce's strange equipment, was to patrol the perimeter of the mansion. And that he did, minigun in arm and battleaxe strapped to his back. He didn't anticipate any Felt returning, as their schedule didn't indicate such being a problem, but there was always the possibility of other rival gangs or hooligans plotting a break-in as well.

Deuce snuck in through a small window; one low to the ground. He had brought tools for cutting glass and breaking locks, just in case. Fortuitously, the window was already open. Judging by the day's nice weather, he gathered that it had been opened purposefully (and not just neglectfully left open), and therefore, there was a good chance his target was nearby.

Earlier, Deuce had gone through the Felt list in numerical order- and right off the bat, he had something. Itchy always seemed irritatingly content and never wanted for anything, so bribery was out. Deuce had this gut feeling that if he threatened to harm Doze if Itchy didn't cooperate, things would end terribly for him- Deuce, that is. There was one more thing about Itchy's character- something peculiar, something Deuce had to note. On occasion, when activating his speed powers, an incomprehensible hum could be heard emanating from his path. Because it tended to happen after, and only after, someone spoke to him, Deuce had a theory that the humming was Itchy's own voice in response. Furthermore, just as Itchy struggled to stop his body from moving once it was going, it seemed that rule applied to his mouth and vocal chords as well.

Since Droog and Slick were out, attempting to recruit Matchsticks and Quarters that day, Deuce wanted to pull his weight and find someone at the same time. Unfortunately, that day Itchy was hanging out in the mansion- he and Doze, to be precise. It was their turn to do routine maintenance and minor clean up. Itchy always did all the manual labor, helped by his superior pace, and Doze, with his eye to detail, always stood by and checked his partner's progress.

It wasn't that Deuce was apprehensive about confronting the Felt in their own mansion in general. He knew the place better than most of her usual inhabitants and could outrun them if worse came to worst. But Doze and Itchy were the respective exceptions to those rules. Plus, there was always the possibility that somewhere along the line, from Fin to Trace to the Crew, information had gotten jumbled, and Deuce would find himself running right into a more formidable enemy. Boxcars was there to guarantee that didn't happen. There was a third element that necessitated Deuce getting a bodyguard. Slick always insisted that no one should enter the Felt mansion unaccompanied.

Slick never told them, but he had a fear, most likely one irrational, that the ticking clocks would drown out any screams.

A couple rooms away from Deuce's improvised entrance, two of the Felt were hard at work. Itchy wiped a trail of sweat from his brow. Holding up a framed piece of artwork should not have been such an arduous task. That was what Itchy thought ten minutes of holding ago. Doze stood back and eyed it, walking to one side and back again. He tapped his finger to his lips. Suddenly, he pointed his finger up and opened his mouth to speak. Itchy tensed up, ready to move as dictated. But Doze just dropped his hand back to chin, shaking his head and muttering to himself, and Itchy slouched, disappointed. Doze did that a few more times.

"Will you please make up your mind? My arms are going to fall off!"  
"You can't rush good taste. But I think I've got it. A little to the left. My left. No, that's too much. Bring it back. Good. Now, down just a wee bit. A bit more. More."  
"Doze, if I bring this painting down anymore, the back of this armchair is gonna hide it!"  
"That's not a concern. You'll be moving that."  
"What!? I have to pick up this son of a bitching bastard again? Then why'd you tell me to drop it here?"  
"Because you were huffing and puffing about how heavy it was."  
"Then where the hell do you want it?"  
"Over there." Doze pointed to the far corner of the room. Itchy gave an exaggerated whine and let his arms fall to his sides. The painting fell with them.  
"Itchy! Watch what you're doing!" Doze scolded. "Now we have to start over! Put the painting back up and please, listen clearly to my instructions!"  
Itchy rolled his eyes and slapped the painting against the wall carelessly. "Well?" He turned to Doze, surprised to be greeted by an elated grin and wide eyes shining.  
"Oh, Itchy! That's brilliant!"  
"Huh?" Itchy looked at the wall. The painting was askew (and partially gouged into the plaster.) "What did I do?" Doze ran up to it, framing the area with his hands.  
"Hanging it diagonally! It's so avant-garde; why didn't I think of that?"  
"Oh, yes, that was completely intentional," Itchy muttered. Doze hugged him tightly.  
"I knew there was a reason I loved having you around. I know you don't share my passion, but you do have an eye for this, if you would just open it more often." He gave Doze a peck on the cheek. "You're such a good assistant."  
"How come I'm your assistant?" Itchy hugged back.  
"Darling, you know I think the world of you, but when it comes to interior design, I reign supreme." Doze gave his partner a condescending smile.  
"About that," Itchy peeled Doze's arms off of him. "Weren't we supposed to be cleaning?"  
"You expect me to work in this environment?" Doze pouted, placing his arms akimbo. "I'm not sweeping a single dustbunny until this room has full-on troll feng shui!"  
"Alright, alright. But do I really have to move this chair again?"  
"Just once."  
Itchy grumbled, but got on his knees and hoisted up his burden nonetheless. Doze whispered into his ear.  
"I do believe this chair is large enough to support two people. Once it's in place, I'll make sure the effort was worth it."

Itchy activated his time powers, and before Doze could say another word, or think of another word to say, not only was the chair in its new position, but the two of them were sitting together on it. Doze was almost on top of Itchy.  
"What just- oh." Doze poked the other man between the eyes. "Naughty Itchy. You know Scratch doesn't want us wasting our time powers on mundane tasks."  
"If he knew what was at stake, he'd forgive me this time." Itchy pulled Doze closer. Their lips touched, and as their mouths began to fall into a comfortable, but distinct symphony, unique to them, Doze melted into his matesprit's arms. His eyes were closed, all the better to get the full experience of the kiss, what with his other sense heightened. Only when they readjusted their position would Doze's eyes flutter open.

For a second, they pulled away to catch their breath. They gazed at each other with heavy-lidded eyes. Then, Doze's brow furrowed.  
"Itchy," Doze began, still a trifle breathless. Itchy took that as a sign of desire. He leaned forward and tilted his head to kiss Doze on the neck, using one hand to support him and the other to fiddle with the top button of Doze's collar.  
"Itchy, no." He gently slapped the hand away. "We're not finished with this room."  
"You can't be-"  
"I haven't even told you how to position this chair!"  
"It's fine as it is."  
"Oh, you think you know better than me?" Doze stuck out his chin.  
"It has a good view of the window; what more could you want?"  
"Well, it could be upright, for starters," Doze laughed. Itchy looked down, and realized he had laid it down with the back on the floor. The two of them were leaning up against the seat.  
"Damn." He arose wearily, then gave a hand for Doze to take. Instead of allowing himself to be helped up, Doze tugged Itchy down.  
"You and I can have fun later," he purred. Then got up, taking Itchy with him, and his voice turned serious. "But I can't get in the mood with all this work at the back of my mind."  
"I understand," Itchy mumbled, kneeling by the chair once again. He didn't actually understand where Doze was coming from, but he did fully understand that "Noooo" meant "Noooo".  
"Now, should this face the northeast window, or the southeast window?" Doze stepped back.  
"You're asking me?" Itchy grunted, holding one of the chair's legs.  
"Just thinking out loud."  
"Could you do that in your head? Or do you think as slowly as you talk?"  
Doze shot a glare in Itchy's direction, and the man began to backpedal instantly.  
"I'm not saying you're slow-witted or anything, I, I just-"  
"No, my thoughts aren't as slow as my words, just as your thoughts apparently aren't as fast as your words."  
"I'm sorry."  
"Just drop the chair so it's facing the northeast window."

Itchy did as told, but it was obvious he hadn't been forgiven. Doze marched off, moving onto the next target- a long mirror- without even announcing it. Itchy rushed over to him, and feeling clueless, simply resorted to massaging Doze' shoulders.  
"Listen to me. I really am sorr-"  
"But you don't know what you're sorry for," Doze interrupted. "It's not about what you said, but how you said it."  
"What do you mean?" Itchy stopped massaging; the act hadn't been necessary or helpful in the first place. Doze shook his head.  
"Never mind; I'm just making something out of nothing. Let's get back to work."  
"Oh, no. We're not leaving this as is, with you mad at me."  
"I can't very well jam with you now, with Clubs Deuce watching us," Doze pointed out, gesturing to the mirror which reflected the diminutive Dersite.

The two Felts' eyes went wide, and snapped over to the reflection in the mirror. They locked gazes, mouthed the name of their enemy, and cautiously turned to face him.

Deuce now stood mere paces away, smiling vacuously and waving his chubby little hand. The other was held suspiciously behind his back.

"H-Hey, little guy! Whatcha got there?" Itchy leaned onto his knees. Doze smacked his forehead.  
"You know he's about twice our age, right?"  
"Tch, maybe physically," Itchy mumbled out of the side of his mouth, chuckling. Doze just shook his head and addressed the intruder.  
"I'm terribly sorry about my worse half's discourse."  
"It's no trouble at all!" Deuce just kept grinning, wider and wider.  
"Good. Darling, why don't you give our guest the grand tour?" Doze put an arm against Itchy's back and shoved him forward. Itchy saluted and bounced over to Deuce, assuming the same patronizing position as before.  
"Welcome back to our humble abode!" he greeted. "Feel free to take a look around. If you want to look around, press and hold the look button. Then, press in the direction you want to look."  
"You're running on autopilot again," Doze gently chastised, paying them little mind. He had retrieved something from his pocket- a marble in the shape of a miniature number two pool ball. He ran it over his fingers as Itchy played tour guide. "That's a game tutorial."  
"Speaking of which, I could probably write this mansion's strategy guide," Deuce commented. "I know this place like the back of Slick's hand!" He pulled a card out of his deck, and it turned into his boss's mangled, withered, dead arm. "I... I don't actually know what I'm doing with this."  
Itchy looked faint. Doze sighed irritably, having had enough nonsense. He spun the pool ball in his hand, where it turned into a set of dual pistols.  
"Time's up," he said in a quiet, eerily calm voice, pointing both barrels at Deuce. "What do you want?"  
"I want you to run," Deuce answered, looking not at Doze, but Itchy.  
"Ha! Like I'm gonna do what you tell me," Itchy scoffed. Deuce revealed his hand, the one that had been behind his back, as well as what it clutched.

Itchy's eyes widened at the sight of the lit stick of dynamite. Instantly, he began darting around the room, shrieking his head off. Doze snickered behind his hand whenever he smacked into a wall, only to get right back up, and cringed whenever he stumbled over areas of the room that had already been fixed up. He wiped away a laughter-inspired tear and turned back to Deuce.

"Did you have any other plans besides directing a slapstick comedy?" Doze transformed his guns back into their dormant state. "Since that dynamite is obviously fake."  
"I thought it was pretty convincing," Deuce mumbled as an aside. "I'm going to make your friend talk." He opened the faux stick of dynamite and pressed a button.  
"How do you propose to do that?"  
"It's easy. I know something no one can resist responding to."  
"Well, good luck getting him to shut up," Doze nodded. He walked off to sit on a nearby sofa and watch the theatrics. "Oh! You might want to stand against the wall. He's less liable to run you over."

Deuce smiled in thanks, and did as suggested. Then he opened his mouth and took a deep breath, and belted out:

"THERE IS A LAND THAT I KNOW-"

He didn't even make it through the first line of that Fiduspawn theme song before the predicted humming filled the room. It was a surefire tactic; not only was the song terribly catchy, but the Felt's twelfth member watched the show enough that everyone else in the gang knew the theme by heart- whether they wanted to or not. Once Itchy started singing, and from there, talking about who knew what, the others were quiet. Doze, out of polite curiosity. Deuce, waiting. Finally, Doze couldn't take it and demanded to know what was going on.

"This thing is embedded with technology that records sounds and speeds them up or slows them down," Deuce answered casually. Doze didn't want or need an explanation for Deuce's action; he had a gut feeling that something was terribly wrong. So, he pulled out his guns, aimed one, and-

Deuce barely flinched as the fake stick of dynamite got shot out of his hand.

"I never said it was the stick."

There was a pause, and though he was not looking at him, Deuce could almost feel Doze freeze in his tracks- and it had nothing to do with his own powers.

"Why do you hesitate?" Deuce asked smoothly. "Why not shoot me where I stand?"

Doze lowered his gun.

"Are you afraid that I have an actual explosive somewhere on my person? Well, that wouldn't be out of character for me!" Deuce chuckled, but refused to clarify. Doze tried desperately to conjure up some means of taking down the bothersome Crew member without damaging any property- or worse. He couldn't think a single thought with Itchy's consistent buzzing, unfortunately. Deuce interrupted whatever train of thought Doze had boarded anyway.

"With a lusus? Huh, That's a new one." Deuce held the device up to his ear. With a twinge of reluctance, Doze asked,  
"What are you talking about?"  
"Yyyyeah, I'm not sure you want to know-"  
"Can the suspense and-"

Before Doze could finish his sentence, Itchy ran right between them, crashed into the wall, and stopped his powers. He got up instantly and grabbed Deuce by the shoulders.  
"I swear to all that is holy if you utter one word to anyone-"  
"Relax, my lips are zipped." Deuce paid no mind to Itchy's frantic actions and frenzied expression. "But the little zipper doodad is awfully finicky, and you might need to watch it to make sure it doesn't come un-"  
"Cut to the chase; what do you want?"  
Deuce smirked up at him deviously, and revealed his ultimate reason for being there in the first place. Itchy bit his lips as he weighed his options. Finally, he conceded.  
"I'll go with you."  
"I'm sorry, what was that?" Deuce cupped his hand around his ear.  
"I'll go with you."  
"Come again?" Deuce couldn't resist milking it. Itchy just glared at him. "Fine, fine. Come along, then. That's good."  
Doze watched, nearly baffled, as his lover shuffled away dejectedly, dragged by the enemy. "Wait!" Doze piped up. "I'll go with you, too."  
They turned around to see Doze, wringing his hands, showing far less conviction than he felt. "Well, someone has to look after Itchy, right? Make sure he stays out of trouble?"  
"Two for the price of one, eh?" Deuce rubbed his chin. Itchy broke away from his hold. He dashed up to Doze and took the other man's hands in his.  
"Doze, you can't!" he exclaimed in hushed tones. Doze bowed his head, but looked Itchy in the eyes.  
"I can and just did."  
"No, no, no, you have to scram before Deuce makes up his mind!"  
"Itchy-"  
"I swear, I will activate my powers and carry you far away!" Itchy clenched Doze's hands, as well as his own teeth. Doze kept looking him dead in the eyes, and mouthed the word "No."  
"Please, Doze," Itchy pleaded. "This gang, this life, is the best thing that could happen to anyone on this crap-sack planet. Don't throw it away on my account."  
Doze slipped his arms around Itchy's neck and pulled him into a kiss. He lazily drifted away, and told him quietly, point-blank.  
"I could not care less about any of that, so long as I'm with you."  
Itchy embraced him for a good moment, but eventually agreed.  
"Yeah. Yeah, I just want you to be okay."  
"I will- we will be."

They didn't need Deuce to drag them away. Itchy and Doze followed him out of the mansion on their own, arm in arm, ready to face whatever new challenge awaited them. Together.


	20. Just Desserts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slick ends up making himself sick, and Droog comforts him, which leads to kissing. Boxcars, Deuce, Itchy, and Doze come in.

Deuce led the way to a door leading out of the Mansion, upon Doze's insistence that he wasn't going to squirm through an open window (and by the way, it had a hairline fracture that wasn't there earlier he most certainly wasn't going to pay for.) He focused on the path, keeping watch for anyone unexpected, and trying to ignore Doze's suggestions for quicker routes through secret passageways. Deuce was no dummy and he realized the same of Doze. Doze may have known the mansion better, but that only meant that he knew how to lead someone into a trap better.

Once outside, they met up with Boxcars, who reported an absolute lack of suspicious characters. Well, minus a traveling salesman, but Boxcars made short work of him. Conveniently, there was a river where he could dispose of any parts he couldn't digest. The only other life outside had been a couple verminous beasts. He brought up the rear, jabbing the two hostages in the back with his battleaxe whenever they so much as jerked.

They approached the front gate, and all parties assumed they were in the clear. That was almost true, and for all intents and purposes, could have been true if not for some key factors which threw everything askew. Deuce didn't run into one of the nastier opponents, as he feared, but he found himself facing off with the one person he didn't want to see. Clover.

 _Damn!_ Deuce thought, as Clover spotted the four men and jogged up to them. Deuce rechecked the itinerary. He had forgotten completely, that out of the rest of the Felt, Clover would be the first to return to the mansion. And Deuce had taken far too long acquiring the ill-gotten allegiance of the first two Felts. Now, they could have walked past him. Clover's presence should not have led to any predicaments or altercations, as his powers only guaranteed his defensive qualities, not offensive. However, having an abundance of luck may have been what influenced him to push it.

The more Deuce tried to ignore him, the closer that little imp followed.  
"Hey! Deucey! Over here!" He waved his arms, coming from the left. Deuce tried talking to Boxcars to drown him out. Boxcars' low, rumbly voice was no match for Clover's squeaking.  
"Aw, come on!" Clover whined. "I know you can hear me!" Deuce tried talking to Doze, or even Itchy. Anything to get that horrible little Felt off his-

"Hi!" a small voice exclaimed from his right. "Just wanted to know how you're doing!"  
"Great," Deuce answered sharply, eye twitching. _Maybe something like this, is why Droog's eye twitches so much._ "So, since your question's been answered, why don'tcha make like a tree and wither an' die?"  
"Don't be like that!" Clover pouted. "You aren't still mad about the whole me killing Slick thing, are you? A-are you? 'Cause, last I heard, he was well! Somehow! So everything's good between us now, right?" Deuce's hand trembled. It wanted to form a fist. He had to stop himself. Even if his skill in unarmed combat wasn't so low, he still had to remember that Clover could dodge any punch without trying.  
"We're still going to get together and play games, right? Because you never-" Deuce stopped abruptly and stared him down.  
"You honestly think, after what you've-" he couldn't even finish, he was so livid. He tried to think what Droog would do.  
"If you won't leave us alone, then you can help. Here, hold this." He pulled the fake stick of lit dynamite out of his pocket and handed it over. Clover played hot potato for one terrifying moment, before realizing that it was fake. A twisted grin crept its way onto Deuce's features. Dark, gruesome feelings flooded his heart. He disliked it, but it satisfied something. Still, it just wasn't him.

Then Clover pushed his luck further, and Deuce no longer cared what was or wasn't "him".

"Very funny!" Clover snapped at the prank, throwing the stick on the ground. "You know, you don't have to be a grump just 'cause of one dumb little fight!"  
"'One. Dumb. Little.'-"  
"And, really? You know, it wasn't even my fault Slick got hurt! I never told him to save you, he did that all on his own! He could've let that statue crush you!"  
"You're really going to swing this to make you look innocent?"  
"All I'm saying is there was more to that situation than meets the eye! Hell, if I recall correctly, you were the one who startled me and made me jump off the statue! And you were the one who botched the job of patching up his effigy! So don't get all pissy with me!"

Deuce's fist didn't wait for the okay. It sailed right towards Clover's face, but grazed only his feet. Boxcars had grabbed him from behind with one hand and lifted him in the air.  
"Oh, my bad." He paid no mind to Clover's semi-panicked thrashing in his grasp. "I didn't see you about ta punch his lights out. Otherwise, I'da let ya!" He walked over to the trash cans just outside the gate.  
"Oh no, oh no, not in there! Die's been throwing needles in that!" He shied away like a cat trying to avoid a carrier. Boxcars opened the lid. Whatever unsafe items the can contained had been hidden under a pile of soft, rotting fruits, vegetables, and meats.  
"Looks like it's yer lucky day!" Boxcars jeered, guffawing. He shoved Clover in head first and slammed the lid on top of him. He hurried over to the others.

The trash can rattled, and Clover managed to kick the lid back off. Getting out, without making a huge mess wasn't going to be easy.

"That's much better," Boxcars growled. "Couldn't hear myself think with all that noise."  
"Yeah, noise." Deuce stomped ahead, but sounded weak in spirit.  
"Oh, don't let him get to ya," Boxcars admonished, with a hint of warmth.  
"He was trying to get under your skin," Doze spoke up. "I should know; I'm a connoisseur of triggers."  
"Not to mention, Clover's nothing but an asswipe! Did he even say one word to us, babe?"  
"Not one."  
"See, Deuce? Nothing but an asswipe!"  
Deuce shuffled forward, still leading the way, but only because his feet had memorized the path. His thoughts were elsewhere.  
"It's not that I don't appreciate it, but why are you being nice to me?"  
"I'm not, I just wanted to call Clover an asswipe," Itchy shrugged. Doze gently tugged his arm.  
"We've all been victims to Clover's... antics."  
Deuce's gait eased into a gradual stop. He took a deep breath and nodded his head slowly.  
"...Thanks."

A short bit of time later had Slick driving back to the hideout with his (and I use the term "his" loosely) car. Slick was the first member to return at the end of their respective missions, and for that he was grateful. For one, nobody else would see him staggering in with his pants undone, the smooth surface of his bulging gut partially exposed- although he could always feign drunken slovenliness. He laughed hollowly as it occurred to him that the Crew would probably believe that line. For another, it gave him the chance to change into a more forgiving pair of pants.

He did just that, but kept wearing the same shirt. True, if he even breathed too deeply, the buttons would pop off as per Droog's pre-emptive prophecy, but the only option was to wear one of his t-shirts, and they were so grimy they were better off as car washing implements than articles of clothing. Slick would just have to be careful. He had no designs on eating anymore that night, so there should be no problem.

Droog arrived second, missing an uncomfortable number of steps on the ladder on his way down. Slick, already planted on the couch, made a half-hearted attempt to get up and help. Happily, Droog made it down the rest of the way without incident and turned- no, twirled around. If someone had proposed the notion of Droog behaving in such a peculiar manner, Slick would have laughed it off. To see it for real was unsettling. Something was amiss. Droog moved with a half stumbling, half swaying motion and plopped down onto the couch.

"Are you okay?"  
"Hellooooo," Droog said in a melodious voice, putting his chin on Slick's shoulder.  
"What the hell?"  
"Don't I at leeeeast get a hello?" Droog frowned. "Woooow. Your shoulder blade is booooney. Booooney. Hee hee." He wiggled his jaw back and forth.  
"Gyaah! Don't do that! It feels weird." Slick turned away. Droog moved closer, humming songlessly. He was more or less draped over the shorter man. Slick was about to move again, when he felt something poking him in the back. He asked about it in a less than amused tone.

"Oh yeeeah, I do have something in my pocket!" Droog, wearing a disturbingly not disturbing smile, backed away and fished around for the offending object. He produced three king-size candy bars, one dark chocolate, one milk chocolate, and one white chocolate. "They're for you! I remembered you liked this brand, but I forgot which variety. Wow, I've been so scatterbrained for the past few hours and I don't know why! I can't teeeeell you how bad the walk home was."  
"Didn't you drive?" Slick asked, but his mind and gaze were stuck on the candy bars. He wanted to cry, but he wasn't sure if it was from joy or sorrow. It took him a second to realize Droog hadn't responded. He finally did a moment too late.  
"What?"  
"What?"  
"What?"  
"Dammit." Slick clutched his forehead. "Did you crash the car or- no you drive like an old lady. You lost it somehow."  
"What?"  
"Just give me the fucking candy and tell me why you're acting like an idiot." Slick grabbed the milk chocolate bar from Droog's hands. He tore it open and chewed it almost viciously, while Droog stared at him with an expression of hurt.  
"There's no need for name calling."  
Slick sighed; a noise that steadily increased in volume. "I didn't say you were an idiot; I said you were acting like one." Droog was unconvinced. "That's not an insult, that's a statement of fact."  
"Well, it's rude nonetheless."  
_Great. Even when he's like this, he's still Mr. Manners._  
"Fine, I'm sorry."  
"And?"  
"And... thanks for the candy. Now will you explain yourself already?"  
Droog said nothing, acting like he hadn't heard.  
"Please," Slick spat.  
"Oh! Weeeeeell, since you asked so nicely, I'll tell you!"

Droog spent the next few minutes regaling Slick with the tales of his adventures that night. Slick listened, fascinated by Droog's embellished story-telling, but taking nothing without a grain of salt. He absentmindedly nibbled on the candy bars as though he were attending a movie.

"Uh huh, so after you defeated an army of bishops wielding spatulas, what happened next?"  
"Noooooo, no, no!" Droog waved his hands emphatically. "I had the spatula. They had rolling pi-" His raised appendages caught his attention and pulled it away from his story. "Whoa. I have two hands."  
"Wow, thanks, rub it in."  
"No, see, I've got this one hand over here, but then there's this other hand, and it's a mirror image. That is so wild!" Droog wiggled one set of fingers, then the other, going back and forth. "Soooooo wild."  
"Yes, fascinating." Slick rolled his eyes so hard it was almost painful. "Should I just assume you had as much success with recruiting Matchsticks as I did with Quarters?"  
"Two thumbs even! But... why are they both thumbs? What if only the left one is a thumb? And maybe the right one wants to be called something else! Slick, when you flip your sprite, is your thumb still a thumb?"  
"Droog!" Slick nearly bellowed. "You can publish a damn book about thumbs later for all I care, but right now we have business to discuss!" The end of the sentence was punctuated by a loud hiccup. Slick gave an awkward swallow.  
"Calm yourself." Droog papped Slick's cheek. He nodded, and Droog slid his hand off.  
"Matchsticks?" Slick repeated, tearing away the third wrapper. He was really testing the endurance of his shirt buttons.  
"Why?"  
"I think you mean who"  
"I do?"  
"Let me start over," Slick proceeded to enunciate every word. "Did you recruit Matchsticks?"

Droog ogled him, cocking his head to the side in tiny increments. Then his gaze wandered. Slick gave him a moment before cutting in.

"Are you trying to remember, or are you just mesmerized by the wall?"  
"Right! I remember. King Matchsticks gave me a small piece of his land to use as an embassy."  
"What."  
"It has a very nice bathroom."  
"This would be a very interesting development," Slick then muttered: "If any of it were true. I'll speak with you later when you're more lucid."  
"You make a good point," Droog hummed, staring away again. Slick started to ask why. "This wall is rather eye-catching. What color did you say it was again?"  
"Gray."  
"Gray? Stunning!"  
"Honestly, I can't tell if you're fucked up or being a smartass." Slick bit off another piece. He held that one in his mouth for a minute before consuming it. "I can't finish this."  
"Do you not like white chocolate?"  
"It's good, but," Slick placed it aside and patted his stomach. "I had a lot to eat earlier. I'm, um, I'm still pretty stuffed," he admitted that out of the corner of his mouth, stealing shy glances at Droog like a puppy that got caught up on the dinner table.  
"Seal it up and put it in the fridge for later," Droog suggested. Slick swore.  
"Even now you have more common sense than me. How is that fuckin' fair?" He started to do as directed, but an inability to get off the couch prevented him. His overburdened stomach growled with each movement- ( _Maybe Droog will think a manebeast escaped into our hideout_ )- transforming what had been mere discomfort to borderline pain. He sunk back down. "Yeah, I definitely ate too much."  
"Naughty," Droog giggled.  
"Did you just giggle?"  
He giggled again.  
"Oh fuck, you did." Slick bit his lip, trying to keep from laughing evilly. "I'm gonna tell the other guys as soon as they get back."  
"No! I can't help-" Droog started giggling so hard, he snorted. Slick reached for his cellphone. "No, don't!" In a desperate attempt to silence him, Droog shoved the last piece of candy, wrapper and all, in Slick's mouth. Slick nearly gagged, then fished it out. He angrily lobbed it across the room.

Droog scooted away. "I was only playing," he said softly. Slick leaned down and stared at his feet, not out of guilt, but because that was the only comfortable position.  
"Sorry, I just," He rubbed his belly beneath the shirt. "I feel like, like the floorboards beneath Sawbuck's bed. I think I feel sick." Droog placed his palms on Slick's shoulders and shoved him back against the couch. Slick silently prayed that Droog would understand what he needed, despite his drug-addled brain. He was ashamed enough; outright asking for another stomach rub would send him over the edge; he could never show his face to his crew mates again.

Either Droog was a mind-reader, or- no, Droog probably was a mind-reader. He carefully and obediently undid the buttons on Slick's shirt. His hands made their way without prompting to the tight, enlarged middle now fully uncovered; his lithe, expertly manicured claws moved with precision. Every touch, a feather-light brush here, a purposeful knead there, gave more relief than any pill ever could. Droog ran his hands over the sides of Slick's belly, and down his abdomen. Slick wasn't expecting that, and it sent a terrible, beautiful chill down his spine. He sucked in his breath instinctively. (He tried to stop himself, but was a second too late.) Droog caught him. Slick's eyes widened. The last thing he needed was a lecture about proper conduct between moirails. His chin trembled in fear ( _No it didn't_ ) as he searched his brain for an excuse.

But the lecture never came. The hands went to Slick's sides. That was nice. Slick allowed it. Droog could put his hands wherever he damn well wanted, so long as it helped alleviate Slick's aching.

Droog's lips twitched. He slid closer. His fingers stopped massaging.

They were _caressing_.

No. No, they weren't caressing. Droog had made his position on the subject quite clear.

Then Droog gave him a little pinch and moved even closer. Any closer than that, and he'd be on Slick's lap.  
"Did you just feel me up?"  
"No." The giggle came back. Droog adjusted his position until he really was on Slick's lap, at least somewhat. He put his chin on Slick's shoulder again- that caused an almost imperceptible flinch out of the man, but it went unnoticed. Droog was still, save his hands, and even those movements became more careless, more fluid, and more exploratory. His expression, what Slick could see of it, was borderline content. Slick could feel Droog's whole body relaxing as the weight sunk into him, and his relaxed with it. Droog hummed. He reached around Slick's back, hands now making only the subtlest motions.

They were almost cheek to cheek; only the thinnest space and a sense of reluctance separating them. Slick dipped his toes in the water, turning his head and placing his lips on Droog's temple for one sweet second, then removing them. Droog didn't budge, but he may have smiled. Slick went in up to his knees, planting another, this time prolonged, kiss. Droog turned to face him. He really was smiling. Slick went in up to his neck. He cupped his hand around Droog's face, encouraging it closer. And then, Slick completely submerged himself.

_Enjoy it while you can._

_He won't remember any of this tomorrow._

_He won't want to remember._

Slick tried to shut his mind off. This experience would never return, so he was going to enjoy it. Droog's lips and tongue moved languidly, as they did on the previous occasion. This time, Slick had learned to trust the man's judgment, and did not fight for control or increased speed or fervor. He concentrated all his senses on Droog's motions, both to take everything about them in, and to block everything else out. It felt exhilarating, reminiscent of that other night only a now vast improvement, because this time Slick wasn't accepting the kisses out of longing, but longing for Droog. It felt intoxicating, like he was floating despite being so weighed down. It felt... sweet.

_Sweet? No._

_No, Droog doesn't do sweet._

_He does loyal to the bitter end, sure._

_He does a lot of things._

_But he doesn’t do sweet._

Droog pulled back.  
"Is everything okay?" he asked. "You just stopped moving."  
"Huh?" Slick hadn't realized what he had done, or not done. "Yeah, everything's okay. Just... keep kissing me."  
"For how long?" Droog asked, his lips already pressed against Slick's.  
"As long as it takes," Slick said in one breath out of the corner of his mouth.  
"As long as what-" Droog didn't get to finish. Slick focused on his own motions now, trying to match them to Droog's. Experimenting.

_What's the point of trying so hard?_

_Are you really so desperate for his touch that you'll take... this?_

Slick pulled back.  
"What is it now?"  
"Forget it. Forget it all. This has to stop."  
"But this is what you've wanted, right?" Droog hugged Slick tighter. "What we've both wanted."  
"No!" Slick squirmed, trying to escape Droog's grasp. "I don't know who the fuck you are, but the man I want is named Diamonds Droog, so if you find him, let him know."  
"Don't be ridiculous; you know I'm Droog." He relaxed his grip, but didn't let go. Still, that was the edge Slick needed, and he shoved himself free.  
"No." He stared at his feet again. This time he was ashamed. "No, Diamonds Droog is a great man, a man I am honored to call my m- fuck, I don't even know what he is; it's been so fucking confusing." He paused and sat up straight. "But he's _mine_. And you are a pathetic excuse for a fraction of his perfection. You're a sheep in wolf's clothing."

His gaze having never moved from the floor, he sat perfectly still. Then Droog gave a quiet, almost whisper-like "Okay", and Slick exhaled.  
"On second thought," he began. "Maybe don't tell Droog anything." He hoisted himself off the couch, accepting the other man's arm, but nothing more. He really wasn't looking forward to redoing those buttons, so he staggered into his room to replace it with a t-shirt- cleanliness be damned. Not like he was going to go out again that night. He returned, and just after he sat down (on a completely different seat) they heard the scratchy sound of the manhole cover being pulled off. Deuce descended first, and made a beeline for Slick. He slammed into him like a cannonball with limbs. Slick made a strangled noise, somewhere between a cough and a belch, when Deuce collided with his stomach. Deuce didn't notice.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he sobbed into Slick's chest. "I should have tried harder! I should have-" Slick picked him up and placed him on the floor.  
"What are you going on about?"  
"Boss, please forgive me," Deuce sniffled. "I know that's asking a lot, but this is all I've got, and-"  
"Hang on! I don't even know what you're sorry for."  
Deuce stopped crying. "For... for letting you die, back in the mansion."  
"Letting me? You didn't let me. You tried do the exact opposite. What the fuck gave you the idea that you did anything else?" Slick sighed. "Now hush. You're embarrassing yourself. And no, I won't forgive you because there's no point."  
Deuce bowed his head respectfully, a shaky smile spreading across his face. He grasped Slick's hand in his. "Thanks, boss!"

After their little heart-to-heart, they looked up to see that Deuce was followed by-

"Oh, that's just what I need." Slick didn't bother to hide his disgusted shudder. Itchy shoved Deuce out of the way and dashed over to Slick's chair, seating himself on the edge.  
"Hey, if I had known how good you looked, I would have defected in a moment's notice!"  
"Get off my chair."  
"Hell, you just keep eating, and I'll fucking kill Lord English if you ask me to."  
"I'm not going to warn you again."  
"I mean, these curves are just, damn!"  
Doze entered second, quickly followed by an impatient Boxcars.  
"Darling, don't you think you should listen to your new boss and get away from him?" Doze made his way over and yanked Itchy away by the arm, his actions less promoting subservience than his own sense of possession. Itchy made one final mistake of patting Slick's thigh and giving it a little squeeze. He hadn't even moved his hand away before the searing pain in his chest came. A knife was lodged between his ribs.

Doze was the first to react, crying out Itchy's name, supporting him as dropped to his knees.  
"You... you were supposed to dodge that!" Slick blurted out angrily. "How the fuck do you not- I didn't think- shit!"  
"Our powers don't always work outside the mansion," Doze said through clenched teeth, frustrated that this had to be the circumstance leading to that explanation.  
"They what? Fuck, never mind. Just. Move." He shoved Doze less than gently out of the way. "It's just a minor wound. How hard can it be to mend?"

Pretty fucking hard, actually.

"What's taking you?" Doze circled the two of them.  
"That's rich coming from you," Slick commented, wiping sweat from his brow and inadvertently replacing it with blood. "I've only healed Dersites. I'm not familiar with your biology."  
"So, yer sayin' you can't help him?" Boxcars spoke up, his tone a trifle too uncaring.  
"Don't you dare say that!" Doze snarled. Boxcars' eyes widened and he backed away.  
"I've got this under control." Just as Slick spoke, more blood gushed out. "Oh, what the fuck?"

He stood up. Doze stared at him, his eyes begging for help with more intensity than words ever could. Slick couldn't look at him while he did what he did next.  
"Doze, we're about to see what you're made of." He produced another knife, and sunk it into Itchy's heart, twisting it back and forth.

Doze stumbled and gasped as though _he_ had been stabbed. He collapsed next to Itchy's side, shaking all over. Neither one could speak. Itchy tried, but only a gurgle came out. Doze moved his hand to Itchy's forehead, only to feel it go cold. Doze gasped, a noise of pure disbelief. His hands, still trembling, curled. The words never came. There were no words, only an emptiness. An emptiness that filled in with fury until it spilled over. And with that fury empowering him, Doze moved faster than ever. His hands were around Slick's neck before anyone could register what had happened.

Boxcars and Deuce tried to pull Doze away, but Droog stopped them.  
"What the hell, Droog? We have to help him!" Boxcars yelled, struggling.  
"Have a little faith in our boss," Droog smiled. Boxcars stared at him as if he were on drugs, which he was, but that's beside the point.  
"We can't just stand by and-" Deuce was interrupted by Doze wailing and pummeling Slick's face in.  
"That's exactly what we have to do." Droog lead his associates out of the room. "But this won't get any prettier, so why don't we wait this out over a cup of coffee?"  
"I don't think I can drink any," Deuce whimpered, shivering. Boxcars agreed.  
"I'm gonna wake up, and find this was all a dream."

Slick shoved The Door open with a bang.  
"Hey, Itchy!" he called out into the Afterlife. "Where are you?"  
Death sighed, throwing his head back.  
"Oh, give me a break. I just washed that door! Don't put your greasy hands on it!"  
"Yeah, yeah, I don't care." Slick looked around. "You see an ugly green fucker with a stupid-looking yellow hat?" Death seemed to grow more cheerful at that.  
"Disparaging qualifiers aside, I can only assume you're talking about this character." Death wrote Itchy's name in the air, summoning him. "Please tell me you're taking him with you," he whispered.  
"Unfortunately, yes."  
"Good. He's even more annoying than you."  
"I can hear you both!"  
"You want out or not?"  
"Huh?" Itchy watched Slick paint the edges of The Door with violet flames.  
"Either I come back with you, or I come back alone." Slick opened The Door. "Which'll it be?"

Itchy stepped up to The Door, peering, trying to comprehend what lie beyond.  
"You're taking too long." Slick grabbed him roughly around the waist, his hold high enough not to give Itchy ideas, and his grasp tighter than necessary. As he jumped through, he noted: "You might want to close your eyes and hold your ears."

He felt a pang of guilt; he hadn't said that to Droog. But he hadn't known.

Their mutual return was a shock to all but Droog. Doze still wanted to smack Slick up for harming his matesprit, but instead chose to convert his excess emotion into something more positive. He showered Itchy in kisses once he was sure he was okay, dropping down next to him and holding him close. Their reunion was cut short when they sensed a figure looming over them.

"Gentlemen," Slick began in tone that could have hinted at irony, and waited until he had their attention, "Welcome aboard."  
...  
"Did you plan all that?" Deuce asked in wonderment.  
"Yes, yes I did," Slick answered with as straight a face as he could muster. Doze narrowed his gaze, which was cold as frost.  
"You _sir_ , are the worst person I have had the misfortune of meeting, and I look forward to working for you."  
"Good man."  
"I don't know, I'm kinda freaked out now," Itchy mumbled. Doze snickered and gave Itchy another kiss. Yet again, Droog pulled everyone else into the kitchen, but this time to give the new recruits some privacy.  
"Why do we hafta leave? Why can't they go into another room?" Boxcars pointed out.  
"Which one?" Deuce countered.  
"Good point."  
"Droog can stay with me," Slick offered, a little too eagerly. "And they can share his room." Droog shrugged.  
"That sounds like a fine arrangement to me."  
_He says that now, but wait until tomorrow._

Tomorrow came, and Slick's pessimistic inner dialogue was proven wrong. Slick refreshed a sluggish Droog on the most important events of the day prior: how they were at a standstill with Quarters, how Itchy and Doze had joined their ranks, and how their current relationship with Matchsticks was unknown. He also reminded him that they were bunking together, all of which Droog took surprisingly well. He was just grateful to be thinking clearly. Everything about the previous night was hidden in a fog.  
"That's it? Nothing else happened?" Droog inquired. Slick didn't respond right away.  
"No." He quickly shook his head. "No, nothing at all."


	21. Domestic Disputes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boxcars and Doze have a french toast making contest. Deuce learns that Itchy talks in his sleep, and reveals some of what he’s said to Slick.

Droog looked Slick in the eye, skeptically. There was a lull- brief, yet tense, which seemed to hang in the air even after Slick cleared his throat and put an end to the present conversation. It was stifling. He had to get out of that bedroom. He started making his way for the door, avoiding Droog's probing gaze.  
"Go ahead and get dressed in here," he ordered, though his words were slow and stilted, as though being forced through lips which did not want to cooperate. He slipped through the door, going from zero to sixty back to zero when Droog said his name in a firm voice. Slick cringed.  
"Yeah, what?"  
"Forgetting something?"

Droog tossed a bundle of clothes at Slick. Upon catching them, Slick examined them like they were foreign objects. _Why is he giving me these?_  
"What the-"  
"Clothes." Droog opened the door and pushed Slick out. "I'm not certain how you planned on getting dressed without them."  
"I what?" Slick started. "I mean, of course! I was just gonna let you go first and then come back and," he trailed off. "I'll go now," Slick shuffled away, eyes affixed to the floor. Droog grabbed him, spun him 180 degrees, and nudged him in the direction of the bathroom.

"Stop pushin' me."

Droog closed and locked the door, then leaned against it and sighed. He unlocked the door. He had always done that in his room, to insure that nobody else got in and messed it up. This, however, was Slick's bedroom, and it was already as messed up as a bedroom could possibly be.

Something wasn't right. True, Slick was rarely at his best immediately after waking up, but it was almost like his head wasn't screwed on right. He was acting sketchy, and Droog was going to figure out why. First, he needed to find clothes. He suspected he had become intensely inebriated the day prior, as his sleepwear consisted of two thirds of a three-piece suit, an undone tie, and one shoe. One of them, Slick or Droog, had had the foresight to bring Droog's belongings into Slick's room earlier on, and Droog had no idea which. He smirked at the knowledge that even at his lowest points, he was still probably more cognizant of matters of appearance than Slick. He grabbed a pair of his pants out of a drawer. They had been folded incorrectly. Droog's smirk fell, then returned.

_That's what I get for doubting you, I suppose._

He inspected the pants for superfluous lines. Then he pulled a shirt off a hanger, noting that Slick at least remembered how to hang garments up correctly. He rummaged through the sock drawer. _All white? Really?_ Droog grumbled to himself. _What on Alternia can I wear with these?_ He reached towards Slick's socks to pinch a few pairs, but stopped. Even if his own feet weren't nearly twice the size of Slick's, wearing those would mean adorning his lower appendages in doodles of barkbeasts and other juvenile decorations. He'd sooner commit a fashion faux pas than wear those eyesores. But he did neither. He left barefoot, making a mental reminder to return to his old room for some black socks, just as soon as he was sure Itchy and Doze were absent from it.

Itchy and Doze were actually the first two up and out, as Droog would come to learn. He passed by the kitchen, and in his awareness, the aroma of a breakfast unfamiliar to him preceded the sight of bright green out of the corner of his eye.

Doze was extracting a tray from the oven. Itchy was sitting on the counter next to him, swinging his legs from nervous energy and gabbing in spite of the fact that nobody was listening. Boxcars leaned over the kitchen table, scrutinizing Doze's every move, but giving him wide berth.

"Off the counter." Droog snapped his fingers at Itchy. Itchy sneered and mocked him, but when Doze elbowed him, he hopped down.  
"Good evening to you, too," Itchy blessed him with a smarmy grin.  
"Make that good morning as well," Doze added, placing a tray of fresh croissants on the counter. "I don't believe we wished any of you one beforehand."  
"Our minds were kinda preoccupied."  
"I suspect mine was as well," Droog said under his breath. "Those do smell divine," he complimented, reaching for one of the croissants, glistening golden. Boxcars harrumphed.  
"Who said you could have any?" Itchy retorted.  
"Be reasonable, Itchy. We weren't going to eat these all by ourselves!" Doze chided, handing Droog a croissant on a plate.  
"Not me. Just you."  
"You are incorrigible!" Doze gave him a light punch, lacking in oomph but not conviction. "Are your co-horts up yet?" he changed the subject.  
"Slick is. He should be wandering in here soon enough. I'm not sure what's taking him."  
"Deuce said he wants ta be alone," Boxcars informed them. He reluctantly grabbed a croissant and tore off a bite with his teeth like a piece of meat. "I guess this ain't half bad."  
"You're damned right!" Doze sniffed, chin in the air. "I have a degree from one of the finest culinary institutes on the Green Moon! What can you claim?"  
"I don't need no fancy paper telling everyone that I know how to put food together. I kept the four of us from starving to death in the desert, and that's all ya need to know."  
"All that tells me is that you didn't give anyone food poisoning. Bravo."

Slick entered the kitchen about then. He was wearing a jacket. Doze fixed him up a plate, not breaking his pace in the argument. Slick stared at the croissant, perplexed, before Droog impatiently grabbed the plate and put it in front of him.  
"It's food. You eat it."  
"Shut up." Slick nibbled at his breakfast. "Hey, these are really good! Doze, did you make these?"  
"Buncha Troll Judases, the lot of ya," Boxcars growled. Droog tapped Slick on the shoulder.  
"Where are you going?"  
"Wha?"  
"You've got your jacket on; you must have some reason for-"  
"It's none a' your business, okay-"

"I could run circles in the kitchen around your green ass!"  
"I'd like to see you try!"  
Slick and Droog stopped talking and chose to pay heed to the argument, which was growing rather heated.  
"Fine! We'll have a cooking contest!"  
"That is a delightful idea," Doze smiled fiercely, yet his eyes remained icy. "How does french toast sound?"  
"Sounds like yer patronizing me." Boxcars loomed over him. Doze rolled his eyes. He'd had his fair share of Felt try to intimidate them with their size, and it never worked. It's hard to scare someone who knows your deepest desires, your most shocking secrets, and whether or not you sing into your bottle of body wash in the shower. But that's neither here nor there. "French toast is too easy."  
"Maybe if all you know is the rudimentary, plebeian way. But I have a few tricks."  
Boxcars narrowed his eyes. "French toast it is, then."  
"Of course, we will need a judge. Itchy?"  
"Sure!"  
"Oh, no you don't." Boxcars shook his head. "Like I'd expect him to be unbiased, knowing you two are shacking up. Slick can judge."  
Itchy perked his head up.  
"No!" Slick snapped. Itchy wilted like a flower. "We aren't wasting our time on a stupid cooking contest."  
"Sorry, Boss, I kinda got carried away."  
"Sorry, Sir. I don't mean to waste anything." Doze then slowly admitted: "I can get a bit defensive about my cooking; it's the one thing I'm proud of."  
"What about that thing you do with your to- OW!"  
"I don't wanna knock you down or nothin'," Boxcars mumbled. "I just don't wanna be... replaced." He moved his mouth so subtlely on the last word, it could scarcely be considered audible. Context, and for some, a familiarity with the man, was all it took to make it clear.  
"I don't want to replace anyone. I just want to cook."  
"Maybe we could work together, learn a few things-"  
"Oh good Godhead, you two are making me sick." Slick slumped over to exaggerate his disgust. "Just have your damned contest."

Doze and Boxcars stared at him, then at each other.  
"I'm gonna wipe the floor with you!" Doze trashed first, his eyes now fiery.  
"You don't scare me. I literally eat guys like you for breakfast."  
"Ugh, must you use that adverb for emphasis? Don't you know what you're saying?"  
"Oh, he does," Droog piped up, then shuddered. "It's not a pretty sight."  
"Howzabout some french toast with Doze filling?" Boxcars gave a full-mouth Cheshire grin, licking his teeth. Doze just shoved past him.  
"That would be absolutely revolting. Are you sure you know how to cook?"  
"Cook? I don't merely cook... I conjure this ambrosial feast with the-"  
"Get on with it!" Slick groused at the pre-battle slamming. Boxcars and Doze both gave each other one steely, fierce look before commencing their culinary competition.

Slick leaned over towards Droog. "You think Boxcars is gonna trust Itchy's judgment?"  
Droog gave a hint of a chuckle, parroting the question. "You think either of them care one lick about judgment? They've got their heads so far up their asses I'm surprised they can smell anything. They're both going to walk away from this considering themselves the winner, regardless of outcome. Besides, who else would be willing?"

As if on cue, they were graced by the skittering sound of Deuce's bare feet across the linoleum. He bore a distracted look and held a strange device to his chest, and almost passed the kitchen. Boxcars saw him over the counter.  
"Hey, Deuce! Good, yer up!" Deuce stopped and headed back, smiling. Doze shook a distasteful amount of cracked pepper (which is to say, any amount) onto his opponent's frying pan while the man had his back turned. "You an' Itchy can help resolve our little debate."  
"Huh?" Deuce cocked his head, but climbed onto a chair next to Slick nonetheless. Doze filled him in on the events which took place while he was holed up in his room. Boxcars switched the frying pans around.  
"The things I miss, sleeping in," Deuce said. Whether it was an insult, a compliment, or a mere comment, was unclear. "Except, I wasn't just sleeping this time."  
"We were informed that you wished for solitude," Droog said uneasily, his voice low, eyes darting not-so-surreptitiously at Boxcars. "Are you alright?"  
"Fine, fine! Better than fine!" Deuce laughed too loudly. "Um, I've been working on a little something. Yes, Boss, I think I have something here that may interest you." He partially revealed the device.  
"Is it a puppy?" Slick didn't bother to regard him.  
"What? No. Just look."  
"What about knives? Is it knives?"  
"That's not even grammatically correct!"  
"...Is it a knife-wielding puppy?"  
"I just told you, it's not a puppy! You are such an unbelievable cretin sometimes! Maybe if you stepped out of your own head for a moment and paid attention to the world around you, we wouldn't be having all these problems!"

There was a dead silence in the room. Deuce felt it was choking him. He didn't know what was the worst: Droog, busying himself with his coffee and newspaper, trying to ignore everything, or Slick, wearing an indescribable expression, or Boxcars. Just Boxcars. He clearly was trying to look stern and disapproving, but it was a paper-thin disguise for a disheartened interior. Deuce feared he would shatter if he looked upon him for too long. He jumped down and ran back into his room without another word. Boxcars sighed as he watched Deuce close the door. Doze turned Boxcars' burner on high.

After hearing the final "click" of the door, Deuce slid down against it and laid his head between his knees. _What have I done?_ He inhaled deeply, and shook as he exhaled. He couldn't believe he had taken his Clover-related stress out on Slick, of all people. The one person Clover could use to get at Deuce's weak points. _How could I say such nasty things to one of my dearest friends?_ He felt queasy. _The one who, even when the city was built, and we no longer need each other, still offered us a home and employment!_ His eyes went wide and his stomach dropped. He realized then, that he had never exactly considered whether Slick was a friend first or a boss first, but he certainly was considering it now. He put a hand to his mouth as his imagination went into overdrive; creating a scenario involving Deuce getting booted out of the Midnight Crew. A small voice told him he was being insensitive, only worrying about his own needs. This exacerbated the guilt, and with that, the twin devils of shame and worry began to eat at him until someone started banging on his door.

"J-just a moment, please!" Deuce called, his voice frantic and cracking just a bit. A small, clawed hand reached its way underneath the door, poking Deuce in the side.  
"Aha! Found you!" Slick called back.  
"Sli- uh, Spades!" Deuce grabbed the hand. Slick always liked doing that. "I don't, I can't-"  
"Just open the door already," Slick interrupted sharply, taking his hand back. He sniffled. _Oh Godhead, he's crying. I made him that upset. This is the worst day ever._

Deuce yanked the door open to find his boss lying down on the floor, with a genuine grin. He was crying. With joy.  
"Boss?" Deuce began cautiously, helping Slick to his feet.  
"Who died?" Slick joked. "I've never seen you lookin' so depressed."  
"You mean you're not hurt by what I said?"  
"Not unless you count the side ache I got from laughin' so fuckin' hard."  
"But still, those words were uncalled for and-"  
"Hilarious coming from you," Slick laughed again and patted Deuce on the head. "If anything, I should be apologizing for not taking you seriously. Ever." He let himself into Deuce's room and beckoned him to follow. Deuce was smiling, but even Slick could tell he was forcing himself to do so. Slick rubbed his shoulder and bit his lip. "This still about my-" Deuce gave a small, quick nod. Slick pulled at his shoulder even harder. His temporary demise had effected Deuce more than anyone realized, and it was at last taking its toll. Slick wasn't one for dispensing comforting speeches, and there wasn't anything good lying around for use in feelings jams- save for Deuce's myriad of costumes, but Slick figured Deuce would not appreciate messing up those. He opted for a change of subject. "Say, why don'tcha show me what you're working on? Let's start this day over right."  
Deuce brightened up immediately.

"Last night, I couldn't sleep because," Deuce began. "well, never mind the because. But while I was awake, I heard this humming. At first I thought it was the refrigerator or some other appliance, even though it didn't sound like anything familiar, but I was pretty drowsy, so I suppose I wasn't thinking clearly-"  
"Rambling."  
"Oops! So I finally figured it out: Itchy had activated his time powers in his sleep, and at some point started sleep talking, so I recorded everything I could from that point."  
"Really? Good work" Slick said with a genuine nod of approval. He frowned. "I thought Doze said they couldn’t use their powers here."  
"Hey, you're right!" Deuce exclaimed. "But why would he lie about something like that?"  
"Yeah, that would make them even more valuable to us. I'll have to have a talk with them about it later; make sure they're not up to any funny business. So what did he say?"  
"I don't know yet; I haven't slowed it down. I wanted you to hear it first and see what you think."  
"How long's it gonna take?"  
"Could be a while. He rambled for about five minutes."

Slick sat on Deuce's bed and made himself comfortable. "Alright, let's hear it."  
Deuce held up the recording device and pressed a button. He waited a moment, then pressed play (while turning the volume low, just to be safe). They listened patiently (and not so patiently, judging by Slick's rapidly tapping foot) through the first of the rambling. They listened uncomfortably through the duration of Itchy describing in great detail the precise nature of his relationship with Doze. They listened closely when Itchy went on to discuss pertinent information about Felt numbers three through fifteen. Most intriguing was his commentary on none other than Crowbar.

Slick and Deuce's eyes widened as secrets were revealed. When the talking stopped, they turned to each other, broad, malicious smiles stretched across their faces. Slick grabbed Deuce's shoulder and pulled his ear close. As sweet smells filled one room in the hideout, murmurs of plots filled another room. They rejoined their companions to find a plate piled high with crispy french toast. Slick considered it, but stood by his initial refusal. Deuce reached over and grabbed a piece. Itchy shrugged and did the same.

Meanwhile, Doze slid his own fried masterpiece onto a plate. He and his rival had realized partway through that neither of them were going to get anywhere if they kept sabotaging each other's dishes, so they took turns. Boxcars was allowed to begin first, on the basis that he would bite off Doze's arm and give it to the boss as a present. Doze accepted the offer, on the basis that his meal would thus be served hot and taste fresher. Itchy shoved the first piece of toast aside and gladly accepted one from his partner in its stead. Deuce took one as well, but continued eating the first- and he seemed to devote more attention to it.

As (what should have been) expected, Itchy proclaimed Doze the winner. Deuce protested, insisting the honor should go to Boxcars, but adding politely that he enjoyed both creations. Not satisfied with a tie, both competitors began heckling the judges. Pandemonium ensued, leading to a small food fight. Boxcars poured vanilla down the back of Doze's shirt, Doze threw a raw egg at Deuce's skull, Itchy slipped on a pat of butter someone knocked to the ground, and Droog hid under the table. Everyone ceased when a steak knife whizzed across the room and got lodged in the wall.

"Can I have that back?" Slick said, as though he were asking someone to pass the salt. Doze pulled it out and started to hand it to him, handle first. He didn't let Slick have it right away.  
"Are you certain I can't persuade you to-"  
"Give it up! You ain't gonna win!"  
"And you think you would?" Doze gave up the knife and whirled around.  
"I think I already have on account a' I still don't trust Construction Hat over here." Boxcars jerked his thumb towards Itchy.  
"It's not a construc-"  
"Yet you'll trust Deuce not to be biased on your account? Are you saying you two don't care about each other the way Itchy and I do?"  
"What? No!" Boxcars looked bewildered. Doze shrugged.  
"Okay, you win."  
"No, no, I don't win! You win!"  
"Okay, I win."  
"No, dammit!"  
"Well then, make up your mind!"

Before Boxcars could open his mouth to retort, his words were cut off by the sound of fork clattering against plate. They found Droog of all people sampling the buttery fare. He grabbed a glass and walked over to the sink to rinse out his mouth. "The things I do for this gang..." He addressed everyone.  
"Boxcars, though lacking in creativity, shows an excellent understanding of the basics. Doze took more chances, but his wasn't quite as polished. From an objective standpoint, Boxcars wins, although I personally preferred Doze's."  
...  
"Haha, yes! I get to cook lunch today!"  
"What? Since when were those the terms of our contest?" Doze pouted. "Fine, I'm cooking dinner."  
"Hey, no fair!"  
"I hate you all." Droog slipped away to wash the dishes before another fight began.

"So what's on today's agenda?" Itchy piped up. Slick held a hand out to Deuce, who gave him the recording device.  
"I have a job for you," he answered. "And I must commend you on your... assistance to our cause."


	22. Interrogation Techniques

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slick sends Itchy and Doze back to the Felt mansion to blackmail Crowbar into joining their side. Itchy gets captured and tortured by Crowbar. Doze gets captured and tortured by Die.

Itchy glanced at the device in Slick's hands, trying to determine if it held any familiarity. Deuce had flashed Itchy a telling grin as he handed it Slick, although what he telling was, to Itchy, a mystery. And now Slick was praising him for some reason.  
"What are you talking about? I haven't done anything; I just got here!" Itchy griped, less concerned with being accused of crimes he did not commit, than of being roped into schemes without his own consent or realization.

"You gave me an idea. Come with me," Slick ordered, heading to the living area. He beckoned for Doze as well. "You two." He then hesitated. "Get it? Because you're- oh wait, fuck, the 'w' is silent, so you can't really tell that it's... a... pun..." By that point, everyone was silent. He scowled.  
"Okay, all green torsos in the living area now!" he barked. Doze tossed his food-encrusted frying pan in the sink for Boxcars to wash and followed his new employer, dragging a still protesting Itchy with him.

Boxcars contemplated throwing Doze's version of french toast in the trash while he wasn't looking. Instead, he settled on inspecting the components. It had gotten minor praise from the normally unappeasable Droog. Boxcars hated even to think of admitting it, but Doze knew what he was doing. Sort of.

"I assume you know what this is about?" Droog asked Deuce, having noted his part in the previous interaction. Deuce shrugged semi-innocently.  
"I supplied the intel. It's up to Slick where he goes with it."  
"Looks to me like he's already going somewhere with it," Droog added, craning his neck to watch the one-sided conversation between boss and underlings, already taking place. He gave a flash of a grin and raised his coffee mug in salute. Slick was back to his active, enthusiastic self, and wasn't that a glorious sight.

A small voice in his head asked why he was not consulted for this impromptu meeting, but he swiftly squelched it.

In the living area, Slick pressured the two Felt to sit on the couch, stating that they might as well get comfortable. In truth, he found that people were more likely to walk out on his plots if they were already on their feet. He stood by, and once he was confident he had their attention, held the device aloft. He kept still for a moment, as though holding the silence with it.  
"So, gentlemen," he began at last. "Do you have anything of note to declare about your former employer?"  
Itchy looked at the ceiling, then shook his head. Doze stared at his fingernails and shrugged.  
"That's interesting, because-" Slick pushed the play button, letting the device finish his thoughts. "Sound familiar, Itchy?"  
Itchy leaned forward, eyes widening as he recognized his own voice, sped up, then slowed down.  
"How did you get-" he began, but then listened more closely to his own words. "Why did you guys record me talking about that?"  
"What?" Slick had gotten so wrapped up in his own expectations of how the following actions would transpire, that he had forgotten to press rewind. The sleep-talking Itchy had moved from the topic of sensitive Crowbar-related information to the topic of his own sensitive feet and whether he needed to buy an ointment for them. "Dammit."  
"Hey, you try running everywhere and see how your dogs feel."  
"Shut up and listen," Slick cut him off. "I've got this for real this time." He tried again.

_"Crowbar and Die fighting. Hahaha. Called us bad couple. He's gonna use Die. Heist. Crowbar planned. Won't know what hit. Wanna ride ferris wheel."_

Slick pressed stop.  
"Nothing of note, huh?"  
Doze shrugged again and sniffed. "I didn't realize you were interested in gossip." Slick narrowed his eyes at him and placed the device aside, on top of an end table.  
"Try to keep up, will ya?" He clawed at Itchy's hand when the later started prodding at the device. "Inner gang drama is exactly the leg up we're gonna need." Doze leaned forward, hand rested on his chin. Itchy cocked his head to the side. "If Crowbar and Die's relationship is already on the rocks, and we reveal to Die that Crowbar is planning on using him-"  
"That would destroy any trust remaining between them," Doze finished.  
"Exactly." Slick took the device back (Itchy got curious again) and tossed it in the air a few times. "And Die may despise everyone, but with his trust in his current leader shattered, we'll look pretty good in comparison."  
Itchy jumped to his feet. "Are you saying you want him to join our side? But he's, he's-"  
"Sit down, spazz," Slick snarled. "If you want say in who gets recruited you gotta be the boss. And you're not. So you'll do as I say because that silence of yours hasn't exactly put you on my good list."  
"Aw, come on, that's not fair!" Itchy whined.  
"You think I got where I am with fairness? With smiles and rainbows? That I bribed people with candy- oh wait, I did do that."  
"How was I supposed to know that you wanted to know that stuff? We just got here. We don't know your plans," Itchy continued his protest and Doze nodded in support. "Besides, Doze told me all that stuff about Crowbar and Die. Yell at him."  
Doze just gaped angrily. Slick chuckled and turned to him.  
"Oh, really. That's two strikes against you, my friend."  
"What are you talking about?"  
"I distinctly remember you saying last night that you men couldn't use your powers outside the Felt Mansion, and yet here we have definitive proof against that."  
"Oh for fuck's sake." Doze rubbed his forehead. "I said that they don't always work!" He gave an aggravated sigh as Slick listened, unsatisfied. "Fine. So I wasn't entirely explicit. You think maybe I left out some details because I was a little stressed? Seeing one's lover in mortal peril will do that to a man."  
Slick still didn't answer.  
"The long version is: whenever we leave the mansion, a small bit of power is stored inside us to use in emergencies."  
"Really? Shit, I've had so many wasted opportuni- oh. Now I see what you guys are getting at. This would explain my dream rambling." Itchy scratched the back of his head.  
"You mean you didn't know either?" Slick asked. "That would also explain why you didn't dodge when I shanked you."  
Itchy scratched his head with more intensity. "Yeah. I guess it's something you have to learn to control. Say, Doze, how did you figure this stuff out?"  
"Sometimes I would arrive at stores or bars too early and needed a way to pass the time."  
"Yes, yes, fascinating," Slick said loudly. "You've both proven yourselves worthy of the Midnight Crew's attention. Now it's time to earn our respect."  
"Pretty words," Doze sneered.  
"And earn free drinks at Nervous Broad's club!" Slick added.  
"Now you're speaking my language!" Doze stood up, pulling Itchy with him at the same time. "Come, dear. Let us find Die."  
"Don't come back empty-handed."  
"But what if he refuses?" Itchy dragged his feet all the way to the ladder.  
"Don't. Come. Back. Empty. Handed."

Deuce walked in to the sound of the manhole cover closing.  
"You sure you want to send them off by themselves?"  
Where a proud smile once graced Slick's face, a grimace swiftly replaced it.  
"Want me to trail after them?" Deuce sighed.  
"If you don't mind," Slick said quietly. His lack of conviction in the command did not indicate that it was optional, but that he was annoyed with himself for not thinking of it in the first place. Deuce understood that.

"Do we even know how we're gonna get there?" Itchy grumbled as Doze took his hand. They found themselves under the vibrant glow of the green moon. It shone so brightly as to illuminate all pathways, yet the Alternian sun reflecting off it was almost too much to bear. Doze regarded it with trepidation, unsure of whether to take it as a good or bad sign. "The lousy racist taxi services won't have anything to do with us Felts."  
"I'm pretty sure it's a gang rivalry issue, seeing as most of them are owned by the Midnight Crew." Doze paced about, looking for a mode of transportation. "And aside from Quarters and Cans- due to their size- I believe we are the only ones of our kind with a permanent ban."  
"What? How come?" Itchy asked.  
"Apparently, they don't take kindly to customers befouling the seats with bodily fluids and trying to compensate with a few extra bucks as a tip," Doze explained, starting to feel irritated that Itchy was veering off subject.  
"Oh, right. I totally forgot we did that-" he stopped cold as he sensed- not even saw, just sensed- the scathing, reproachful look Doze was giving him. Itchy started stumbling over his words, correcting himself. "Well, 'totally' is kind of an exaggeration. Of course I remembered, because it was so Alternia-shattering, just like always, but maybe not quite as, um-" His voice got softer as Doze's look grew more disdainful. _Is he ever going to let this go?_ Doze sighed inwardly.

Itchy was certain he was just digging himself in deeper, so, to Doze's delight, he reverted to the original subject.  
"What if we borrow one of the Crew's cars?" he suggested.  
"Perish the thought!" Doze sneered. "I wouldn't be caught dead in any of those junkers. The only decent one is Droog's, and his probably smells like an ashtray."  
"Uh huh."  
Doze smirked. "So, no commentary on my unflinching fussiness?" He raised an eyebrow upon seeing Itchy lost in thought.  
"No, but seriously. Suppose we did just hotwire one of their cars, and set off on our own, and-"  
"And what?" Doze demanded, irritation flaring up again. "Are you seriously suggesting we betray our current employer?"  
"Hey, we don't owe them shi-"  
"It's not about them, it's about us! Do you have any idea what we would do once we're free?"  
Itchy bowed his head.  
"Exactly. Neither do I. We need focus, and right now, the man downstairs is looking to be a better candidate for that than Crowbar was," Doze huffed and looked around again. "What we need, is a rickshaw."

He barely got the words out of his mouth before Itchy caught onto his line of thinking. Itchy swept him off his feet- literally- and in an instant, the scenery became a blur. At the halfway point, Itchy switched off his power and unloaded his passenger. Doze looked at him with shock.  
"Not that I'm complaining; this is certainly efficient, but how the fuck did you do that out here?" Doze yelped. Itchy stood, bent over his knees, out of breath.  
"I'm pretty surprised, too," he confessed. "I wasn't sure this would work. Ever since you said that Scratch didn't want us using our powers for mundane stuff, it got me thinking. So I've been trying to save up excess energy, although, in retrospect, I'm not sure I understand my train of logic."  
To his delight, Doze suddenly wrapped him in a tight hug and kissed him on the lips.  
"Two things. One. You actually took something I said seriously?" Doze pointed out as he pulled away.  
"You don't have to act so shocked," Itchy muttered.  
"Two. So you do know how our powers work outside the manor!" Doze praised him. "I had a feeling. Oh, you're so clever!"  
Itchy chuckled and kissed Doze back.  
"I can never tell when you're being sarcastic. But, yeah, I figured it couldn't hurt to play stupid. Okay, okay, when I'm not being stupid for real," he said in between kisses planted on his lover's neck. "Oh, and this is the first time I've consciously tried something like this. Otherwise, I could totally have dodged Slick's knife."  
"I can't imagine Slick will be too happy to learn you lied to him," Doze tried to argue, but was feeling decidedly unargumentative.  
"Hey, I never told one lie, technically-speaking,' Itchy said to Doze's chest and stomach. Doze lifted his chin up.  
"Don't you think you're celebrating a bit early?" He pulled himself away. "Not to mention, we are in broad moonlight."  
"Alright, alright. But my legs have gone all jelly-like, so we're both walking," Itchy shook his arms and stretched his back. "Unless you think we could bribe a cab driver..."  
"With what? Your charm? My stunning good looks?"  
"Yeah, I still can't tell if you're sarcastic."  
Doze thought before replying. "In this case, neither can I."

Ultimately, they used their own four feet.

Walking through the modestly-populated area of a town posed no threat. They were at the outskirts, where most inhabitants kept to themselves. Only deep within the concrete bowels of the city did discordant crime run amok; only there would someone like Doze, who tends to keep his money on his person, be at risk. After that came the hike through some wooded areas: one of the few on the entire planet, and its natural resources the primary reason for the city's placement of proximity. Itchy and Doze held each other's hands tightly but comfortingly on the way through, both hoping to avoid getting lost. The final hill up to the Felt Mansion seemed steeper than usual, but they trekked it nonetheless.

They stood a good distance away from the front doors.

"Hey, I know it's a little late to say this," Itchy began. "but why do you think Slick gave us this job? Just to prove ourselves?"  
"Well, you alluded to it." Doze made no motion to enter. "People see us, they see the Felt. We haven't been turncoat long enough, so they'll still think we're on their side."  
"I guess so. I just hope no one figures us out too early."  
Doze nodded. After a bit of silence, he grinned and asked: "I suppose we're both a little anxious to be back here."  
"I left my set of keys in my other pants."  
"...Goddammit, Itchy." Doze fished out his own keys and marched up to the door. They let themselves in, to find the main hall enshrouded in darkness. The moonlight was not enough to penetrate the thick curtains, and someone had turned the lights off. Doze tsked and slapped his hand against the wall to find the switch. "I know that saving energy is a good idea, but this is the bloody first room anyone ever sees!"

"Do you think we'll be able to find Die easily?" Itchy aided in the search. "Maybe he's not even here!"  
"Sure, and maybe hoofbeasts can fly!" Doze quipped.  
"Oh, he's here, alright."

At the sound of the third voice, they both scrambled about before locating the switch, filling the room with an ugly light, filtered by lamp shades too lofty to be habitually cleaned. The tile walkway leading the next room looked like it could use a sweep, and Die's deliberate walk over to them left both unnerving, echoing, tapping sounds, and footprints in the grime.

The Felt and Ex-Felts stared at each other, circling, neither one quite sure who was the predator and who was the prey. Itchy took a protective stance before Doze, muscles tensing. Doze kept his hands at his side, at the ready. On the other hand, Die looked uncharacteristically calm, with his hands behind his back. Doze looked closer. Die's hands were underneath his jacket, hiding something.

Doze reached out to poke at Itchy, to try to warn him. He was a second too late. Die pulled out his voodoo doll. Itchy lunged in his general direction. He was a degree off. Die plunged a yellow tipped pin into the fabric and absconded. Itchy swore.

Instead of the expected silence or voice of his lover, Itchy was treated to a muffled. booming noise. At first he thought the house was settling, but then he saw that Doze had his hands raised, palms together.  
"Did you activate your powers to give me a slow clap?"  
"Yes. Nice going," Doze sneered  
"So I missed. Shut up. He's just gone to a timeline where I'm dead. He'll be back." Itchy made himself comfortable in a dilapidated armchair. "He's never gone for long. He hates me too much."  
"I don't think he's caliginous for you, darling." Doze wasn't ready to sit just yet.  
"Oh, neither do I. But Die's a drama queen, you know? He gravitates towards things that piss him off, like some sort of rainbow drinker who drinks stress. You should know all about that."  
"I should, should I?" Doze paced in front of the armchair. Itchy curled up into it, his blood running cold. He tried to hide in his jacket.  
"Well, sure," Itchy answered, his voice coming out as more of a squeak than he'd like to admit.  
" _And why is that?_ " Doze slammed his hands on the arms. Itchy gulped. Emphasis of every syllable was never a good sign. " _What are you saying?_ "  
"I don't know! Nothing! I don't understand what's going on here!"  
" _Are you saying that-_ "

Doze slumped over in his lap, his final question hanging in mid-air.  
"Shit, Doze, are you okay? Still with me?" He pushed him up to find his eyes rolled back, but still breathing. Something sharp was lodged in his ribs- fortunately on the right side. Before he could remove it, a rogue voice suggested against it. Die.  
"How did you-" Itchy said, startled.  
"It's amazing how little you know." Die grabbed Doze underneath the arms and lugged him off Itchy. Itchy didn't react, for fear of accidentally gouging that thing in any further. "You truly can't tell the difference between shadow magic and our powers?" With one hand, he pulled out the doll. "I'll give you a lesson. This is my time power."

 _Don't fuck this up. Don't fuck this up._ Itchy mentally chanted.

Again, he shoved in the yellow pin. Quick as a flash, Die disappeared from the timeline, taking Doze with him. Itchy zoomed towards them, only to crash and tumble over a bench.

_Shit!_

He collected himself, and tried to do the same for his thoughts. But a swift, sharp pain to the back of his head stopped him then and there. Darkness flooded in from the edges of his field of vision, until he was out.

He awoke in a bare room, seemingly decorated only with the harsh lightbulb above him and the wooden chair to which he was tied. The only sound: a soft, repetitive _thwack_. His captor revealed himself. Crowbar. He tore a strip of tape from Itchy's mouth, then resumed smacking his titular weapon into his hand, staring the other man down.

Itchy was almost as scared as he was when Doze did the same thing.

"Hey... Boss!" Itchy greeted uneasily. "What's, what's with this setup?"  
Crowbar stopped, then stood back. As he spoke he paced, swinging the crowbar back and forth. Itchy flinched whenever it got near him.  
"I've tried to be fair," Crowbar mused. "And I think I'm a patient man. But right now, I've just about reached my limit."  
Itchy tried to will the bead of sweat on his forehead back into his skin. Either Crowbar already knew everything and just wanted to make him squirm, or he had suspicions and wanted answers. Both possibilities disturbed Itchy equally. He had to get out of there, but how? His powers had been nullified, and would take a while to return. Hopefully, he'd be able to stall long enough.

"You know, Clover told me a story recently," Crowbar said, now rocking on his heels. "Normally I wouldn't pay him any mind, but it was rather humorous. He said he saw two of our men walking off with Hearts Boxcars and Clubs Deuce- in the direction of their subalternian hideout. I said, 'Were they abducted?' 'No sir.' 'Were they under the influence.' 'No sir, they went of their own volition.' Now why do you suppose he would tell me such a story?"  
"Heh, no idea." Itchy tried not to flinch as the cold sweat trailed down the back of his neck. _I am so fucked. I should've listened when Stitch tried to teach me how to do a proper poker face. But nooo, 'I can always rely on speed!'_ "You know Clover. Always being a little troublemaker."  
"Which is why it's a sad day when it's his word I can trust," Crowbar sighed. "But don't worry. We can make everything right again. If you can tell me which party was responsible- you or Doze- this will be much easier."  
"Fuck that!"  
Crowbar walked away, turning on another hanging lightbulb. It revealed a simple wooden table to match the chair. The table held a variety of metal instruments, each more bizarre than the last. Before Itchy could make sense of them, Crowbar turned the light back off.  
"Just a preview," he explained. "Remember, you just need to talk."  
He turned off the first light.

"Ah, I see you are awake."  
Doze grunted less than delicately at the interruption to his sopor, and his eyes fluttered open. He was sitting on the floor of a room he wasn't sure he knew. It was strange; he couldn't find the door anywhere. He glanced around for the source of the voice: Die. The man was hiding in the shadows.  
"Such a pity," he tittered. "For you, that is."

The lights, which were dim to begin with, began flickering. Random voices, too faint to be intelligible, poured from every corner. Silhouettes of people appeared on the wall only to disappear a moment later.

"For once you have seen my realm, you will know terrors the likes of which I dare not speak! To speak of them would require words so foul, so unpleasant, they could not even be created by any sane person." The flickering increased in speed; the voices grew more desperate and more nonsensical; the shadows took on grotesque forms. Die lowered his voice. "And when this is all over, once your mind is reduced to a mere husk, you will know the words. And you will beg for the simplicity of the common nightmare."

The lights stopped flickering.

"Behold!"

From the side, Die shoved forth a figure. It was dressed in a lime green suit, bloodied and torn, and a round, yellow hat sitting askew atop its twitching head. _Itchy? No, it can't be..._ It tried to rise to its feet, but collapsed onto all fours. Its shoulders shook with weakness, and Doze rushed over to it instinctively. The figure turned its face to him- not Itchy at all. Whatever it was, it straddled the line between living and death. Its eyes were focused, but a dull, milky color. It began to crawl towards Doze, limbs moving in ways they shouldn't. It circled around to his side and stood up unsteadily. Doze could see at the periphery of his vision as it opened its wide mouth and gave a beast-like screech. Then, it faded into a dark mist.

"Impressive, no? That was one of my personal favorite wraiths," Die bragged. "But child's play. Would you like to see his elder brother?"

Doze didn't answer. He busied himself instead, by patting down his jacket, searching for a certain pair of marbles. _There must be at least one here somewhere._

Die didn't wait. "Well, you can't. Technically." Suddenly, a piercing wail rang through Doze's ears. It sounded like it was coming from inside his own head, as it failed to dissipate even when he clamped his hands over his ears. He fell to the ground. _Carpet..._ Doze hadn't paid much attention to the small details at first. But now, something caught his eye- the subtle movement of the carpet's grain. He smoothly reached into his pocket.

"Perhaps a family reunion is in order," Die laughed wildly. "Now I shall summon the grandfather!"

The room itself seemed to change, taking on a reddish-brown hue. The very walls pulsed, and the furniture was slammed around as though tossed by a whirlwind. A presence of menace filled the air, and then a gunshot went off.

Die's previously invisible form slumped to the ground like a masterless puppet, and the room went back to normal. Doze returned his pistol to its original form, then set about looking for an exit. After discerning he was in a cellar, and furthermore, locked in, he fished around in Die's pockets for the key.

Doze looked around for an ambush as he escaped. _All clear._ He let the doors drop with a noisy clatter. "You do not use my man to screw with my head, kapeesh?" he hollered to no one. A quick survey of his surroundings told him he had just exited the Felt Mansion. He jogged around until he reached a proper door, and entered again.

Itchy slumped, his head drooping forward, as he tried not to sob. Searing pain pulsed through his eyelids, and his toes felt as if they were on fire. Every part of him that had not been touched just ached with stress. But if he could take it just a little bit longer, his powers would return. He could just sense it.

"Come now, Itchy," Crowbar admonished. "It's a simple sentence. You love to talk, so you should be able to manage that." Now both tears and sweat rolled down Itchy's cheeks. Crowbar assumed it was all pain. He gave a hint of a smile, certain he had Itchy at the end of his rope. "Well, if you have no more need for speaking, then you have no more need for teeth or tongue."

As though blessed by the great Nicolas Cage, Itchy's powers returned with precious little time to spare. Unfortunately, most of his body was too weak to use it. Fortunately, his hands weren't and those were the only parts he needed. He rubbed his wrists together, and in the darkness, Crowbar could not tell what he was doing. The rope binding his wrists began to sever. Then a daunting thought occurred to him- even if he were to get free from the chair, there still was no guarantee he'd escape from the room or Crowbar. He needed a distraction, and fast. He could hear Crowbar shuffling the instruments around. Crowbar turned the light above Itchy on again, holding a pair of old-fashioned pliers.

"This is a delicate operation, you understand."

Itchy shut his mouth tight, and then his eyes. In the case of the latter, because, to his delight and relief, he saw Doze slip into the room, and didn't want to give him away by following his movements. Crowbar wrenched Itchy's jaw open. Doze tiptoed forth. Because of his powers, Doze liked to move slowly whenever possible. That way, it wouldn't be a shock when he activated them. This resulted in a shrewd sense of observation. He could see a tell from a mile away, and could identify all his companions by the tiniest details. He knew almost every room in the Felt Mansion by heart, and this happened to be one of those rooms. He even knew which floorboards squeaked and which didn't.

The pliers were gripped around Itchy's tooth, as Doze gripped Crowbar's throat. As he yanked him backwards, so too did the tooth get yanked. Itchy finally let out an awkward noise, not sure whether to howl or cheer. Crowbar flailed in a panic as Doze tightened his grasp. Itchy finished the job on the ropes tying his hands, and pulled the rest of the bindings loose. Crowbar kicked and wrestled his way free, only to get a chair upside the head. Itchy bashed his skull in a few more times for good measure before Crowbar's form went prostrate. Doze had to drag him away. Then he took the chair and gave his former boss a good thrashing, and Itchy had to drag _him_ away.

After packing Itchy's mouth with makeshift gauze, they left the room and spoke to each other in hushed tones.  
"How did you find me?" Itchy asked first.  
"You won't believe this, but Clover told me!"  
"Clover? But, Crowbar said he snitched on us!"  
Doze shrugged. "Maybe one day we'll figure him out. But who cares? How are you holding up?"  
"Much better, now that you're here," Itchy sighed happily, but he then winced and touched his fingers to his cheek. He held Doze around the waist, lacking the energy to do much else. "Also, I think my little toe is broken. Say, how did you get away from Die?"  
"I shot him."  
"But then how did you get back to this timeli-" Itchy froze. "Aw, man! He was bluffing again!"  
"I don't quite follow-"  
"Hang on, I got an idea!" Itchy abruptly changed the subject, and ran back into the room in which he had been kept prisoner.  
"What are you doing?" Doze inquired. Itchy was collecting all the instruments and wiping the bloodied ones on his shirt. Then he reached into Crowbar's pocket and stole some boondollars from his wallet.  
"Slick said not to come back empty-handed. He didn't say what should be in our hands. Knowing him, he'll appreciate this stuff."  
Doze caught on and helped carry some of the spoils. Before heading back to the hideout, they ran off to Itchy's old room to replenish their energy. Nobody ever went in there.


	23. The Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowbar and Die come back to life because dying inside the mansion means you regenerate because I said so. Crowbar tries to come up with a way to make Itchy and Doze talk. The next day, the Crew receive an invitation to a party thrown by Ace Dick and Nervous Broad.

Crowbar sat on the simple chair in the interrogation room. His head was in his hands.

 _Died again,_ he mused. _Irritating enough of an ordeal on its own, but at the hands of those two buffoons? Why Itchy and Doze? They've never shown signs of treachery or even dissatisfaction._ He wearily pushed himself up and began the mindless task of tidying up. Not that it mattered; most people weren't aware of the room- if they were lucky. But he needed a good distraction. If Doze had managed to escape from Die alive, there was a good chance Die did not share the same fate. If that was the case, Crowbar would need to provide an adequate explanation.

While he is racking his brain for such, I'll take the time to explain to you, dear reader, the nature of the Felt Manor. Whenever any green torso dies on the property as the result of a strife, they can and will reclaim their animation, provided at least one other green torso still holds to their mortal coil. Whenever this sort of episode takes place, generally the victim wakes up with no knowledge of having died. Any bystanders seem to undergo selective amnesia. Crowbar is the exception to this rule. He is aware, not only of each death he experiences, but any that he witnesses as well.

He had already put the chair and table upright. All that remained was the collection of torture instruments- half of which had been stolen. Crowbar grumbled, taking an educated guess as to where they wound up. _They can have them,_ he decided. _Almost all of them are only good as a scare tactic, and all of them are useless in the wrong hands._ He picked up the remainders and dumped them into a drawer underneath the tabletop. Then he pulled them all out again, curious if either Itchy or Doze had had the foresight to take the better, more efficient instruments. He shuffled them back and forth between his hands, eventually accepting that he was neither truly regarding them, nor thinking of what to say to Die. Most of the time, he'd brush his co-worker's deaths off as mere blackouts. _But Die is different. He'd never buy that. He's too intelligent to accept whatever I tell him blindly, and too headstrong to want to. Plus-_ Crowbar turned off both lights and left, locking the door behind him. _-he deserves better._

It didn't take long to find his co-worker. Die was usually in one of two places: the study or his own room in the cellar. Even considering that he had Doze to drag around- Crowbar had instructed him to ambush Itchy and Doze, capture one of them, and make them squeal- he still would have resorted to one of those rooms. If he wished to keep the upper hand, he would need to remain in a familiar location. At least, that was the logic. Crowbar tried Die's room first. Die wasn't there, but there seemed to be signs of struggle. That was the most likely candidate for the site of his strife with Doze.

He found Die sitting in an armchair in the study. He was hunched over, reminiscent of Crowbar's previous posture. Die, on the other hand, was holding a pile of books in his hands, rather than his head. He flipped through the pages of one, tracing his finger along the lines, not acknowledging Crowbar's entrance. Perhaps he was oblivious.

"Die." Crowbar cleared his throat.  
"Maybe just a little more volume, and Doze would've been putty in my hands," Die muttered. He didn't look up, but his inflection indicated an awareness of another presence. "Was it too quiet? No, no, couldn't be that. My calculations were spot on. Any more would have damaged his hearing. Hmm, maybe I should have done it anyway."  
"Die," Crowbar repeated sternly. Die gave a swipe and shoved the books off his lap.  
"Oh, why am I even looking for the answer? I know perfectly well what's to blame, and it's my own hubris!"  
Crowbar said nothing, but walked over to gather the fallen books.  
"I got so into it. got in over my head, I suppose," Die continued, looking away. "Because then void consumed me. next thing I knew, I had lost him. Oh, Godhead, I am sorry."

Instead of placing the books in their correct spots, Crowbar paused and simply laid them on the shelf. He went back to Die and took the other man's hands in his. He pulled him up, placing a soft kiss on his jawline.  
"We underestimated both of them."  
Die jerked his head down, regarding him with a shocked expression.  
"Did you lose- not to say that I think you would- oh, bloody hell, I'm shutting up."  
Crowbar chuckled and laced his fingers with Die's. "I blame myself. The approach I chose was too direct." Die grumbled in disagreement, and Crowbar leaned in to kiss him again. This time, Die met him. He wrapped his arms around Crowbar's waist, and Crowbar cupped Die's cheek in his palm. Die was taller and Crowbar was stronger; Die was book smart and Crowbar was street smart, but in intimate moments, they felt like equals.

It took both of them a few tries to pull away, giving each other light pecks as they did so. Die reached up and held the hand still against his cheek. His brow furrowed.  
"Don't be so hard on yourself," Crowbar murmured.  
"I could say the same to you."  
"I think the leader should be a bit more discriminatory over his efforts, don't you?"  
A flash of menace graced Die's eyes, and his demeanor grew ice cold. "I hope you're not implying that mine aren't important."  
Crowbar sighed. Normally, at this point, they would get into a row over whose responsibility mattered more. He didn't feel like arguing, so he pressed his lips to Die's in an attempt to keep him from retorting.

Die shoved him away, but couldn't suppress his surfacing smile. "One of these days, that trick's not going to work."  
"Then, I suppose I'll just have to up my game," Crowbar quipped with a suggestive grin. Die blinked at him curiously, but Crowbar didn't bother to explain himself. He stepped back and held up a finger while retrieving his cellphone from his pocket. Die was lost in thought and wouldn't have interrupted. Crowbar made a quick call and then hung up.  
"I figured out a surefire plan to catch those two punks. See, Doc Scratch owes me a favor, or he does if he knows what's good for him, so-"  
"Crowbar!" Die shouted, his tone a bit startled and more than a bit scolding. "That's a trifle inappropriate, don't you think?"  
"I-I'm sorry; I wasn't aware you gave a damn about Scratch," Crowbar stammered.  
"Who- what?" Die stammered back.  
"I think we both got on the wrong track." Crowbar shook his head. He grabbed Die's waist and escorted the both of them out of the room. "Onto more crucial business." He leaned in and beckoned for Die to do likewise. "This is how we're going to confront Itchy and Doze."

Upon the following setting of the sun, the inhabitants of the Midnight Crew's hideout began to awaken, completely oblivious to any plots against its newer members.

(Previously, Itchy and Doze had returned rather late, but immediately found themselves in good graces when they presented their offerings to their new boss. Slick gleefully accepted the torture instruments and wandered off to experiment with them, forgetting altogether why he sent the men out in the first place. Droog questioned them instead, inquiring as to whether or not they had any luck with Crowbar. He went easy on them, as that was the happiest he'd seen Slick in a long time. Plus, their story corroborated with Deuce's, who had stalked them as a security measure.)

The night began somewhat differently than normal. The first instance of abnormality occurred when Boxcars descended the ladder into the hideout, announcing, "We got mail!" to everyone. Only Droog, Deuce, and Doze were officially up at that point, chatting over coffee in the kitchen. Boxcars' booming voice carried into all rooms, summoning a rather haggard-looking Itchy and Slick, still in their nightclothes. They both headed to the kitchen as well.  
"Oh! Good evening!" Deuce said, patting the seat next to him for Slick when Itchy took the one next to Doze. "Have some coffee with- whoa! You guys don't look so good!"  
"I didn't sleep well," Itchy admitted, and rubbed the back of his head. He looked away, signifying that he wished not to speak on the matter further. Doze gave a sympathetic smile and rubbed circles on his back.  
"I didn't sleep at all," Slick grumbled, stealing Doze's coffee cup and taking a swig. Droog narrowed his eyes at him, but said nothing and focused on his own cup.  
"Then why are you up so early?" Deuce asked.  
"You heard Boxcars. Mail, for us? That's a fucking event."  
"And I followed Slick," Itchy added. Droog got up, shoved his chair with more vigor than necessary and walked out.  
"Anyway," Slick said in a drawn-out voice, watching Droog's movements with quiet concern. "I'm gonna find out who sent us mail." He got up and moved to approach Boxcars at the ladder, but Boxcars met him just outside the kitchen.

"Well?" Slick tapped his foot.  
"Let's join the others," Boxcars insisted, dragging Slick back into the kitchen. "This is one fancy envelope, and it looks like it could be big news." He waved the parcel in the air to show it off, simultaneously going against his knowledge of how to handle sensitive documents. He stopped mid-wave and held it close to his chest.  
"Did you see where Droog stomped off to?" Slick asked.  
"Yeah, he went outside. Said he needed a cigarette," Boxcars answered.  
"Already, huh? Well, I guess he'll get the news later." At that point the two of them returned to the kitchen. "Speakin' a which, whatcha got for us?"

Boxcars held out a hand. Slick reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a switchblade, and handed it over. Boxcars made a show of slicing open the envelope and withdrawing a folded piece of paper. He cleared his throat.

"'To all residents of the Midnight Crew's hideout in the sewers: Nervous Broad and Ace Dick cordially invite you to a gala in celebration of their new nightclub opening. Refreshments will be provided by your hosts. Entertainment courtesy of a live band playing traditional Amporan music.' And then after that it says the date, time, and location," Boxcars finished up, giving the letter to Slick to peruse.

"Looks like we can make this." Slick scanned until he found the crucial information. "I don't think we have any plans for that date, but I'll check with Droog-"  
"Hold it!" Itchy interrupted. "Did you say 'Amporan'?"  
"You like Amporan music?" Doze said, stunned.  
"Yeah, you got a problem with that?"  
"No, you just never struck me as the type-"  
Itchy went over to Slick and snatched the letter from his hand. Slick scowled, as he realized they were both aware that Boxcars still had his blade.  
"I don't care what you listen to, if you don't like Amporan, you are wrong." Itchy reassumed his seat and showed Doze the letter. "And a live performance? Do you know how skilled you have to be?"  
"Wow!" Doze exhaled.  
"I know, right?"  
"This is really exceptional penmanship!"

Itchy struggled to produce a response, and settled for giving his partner the most severely bewildered expression he could muster. Doze countered with blatant, and blatantly phony innocence.

Slick watched their silent exchange with genuine obliviousness, so he opted to slip out, taking the letter back before doing so. He had other business to attend to which did not involve interpreting subtle facial cues, and besides, whether or not Itchy and Doze wanted to tag along was, in fact, none of his business.

 _They did sound pretty jazzed. 'Least Itchy did._ Slick contemplated as he approached the ladder. _Then again, their treachery's still unknown. How long do we wait before lettin' everyone in on it? I'd better speak with Droog about that, too._

He caught Droog mid-exhale, a perfect circle of carcinogens escaping his lips. He did not give Slick any verbal acknowledgment, but by the slight tensing of his back and his rigid survey of absolutely nothing, Slick could tell he would not be sneaking up on the man.

"Nice one," Slick spoke up, admiring the effect. "How do you do that?"  
Droog continued smoking before regarding Slick, who waited a few paces back for the man to finish. Not that he appreciated being put on hold in favor of those sticks, but he knew Droog. He would answer when he was good and ready.  
"It requires control over the lips and tongue, for one." He flicked the cigarette butt away, and Slick deftly eliminated it with a flash of violet magic.  
"I don't know if I could ever do it."  
"I'm sure you could if you tried." Droog put his hands behind his back and looked up at the night sky. Slick wasn't sure how to respond, as Droog's comment sounded less like an assurance and more like a retort. He elected to ignore it for the time.  
"So have you tried making smoke diamonds?" Instead, he just continued the conversation as normal. Droog wasn't on board with that idea.  
"What are you doing out here?" Droog suddenly demanded. Slick produced the letter and handed it over. Droog skimmed it and gave it back. "Why are you showing me this?"  
"I need confirmation that we can attend this shindig, and you're the only other one with our schedule." Slick shoved the letter in Droog's face. He looked away.  
"I don't know. Probably. Why don't you bother Itchy about it? I imagine he could read our entire itinerary for the next sweep in a couple seconds." Droog removed another cigarette. "I'm busy, anyway."  
"No you're not," Slick snapped, whacking both the cigarette and lighter out of Droog's hands. "You can smoke whenever you like, but right now I need you to cooperate." At that, Droog's fingers twitched and he narrowed his eyes.

"Plus, I need your advice about Itchy and Doze. Should we even let them come with us?" Slick added. Droog's hands and face relaxed. He regarded Slick with confusion, but turned from him once again.  
"And why, pray-tell, are you deliberating over this?" Droog asked. "I trust you have some means of keeping them away, should you pick that course of action." He then reminded his boss that their new recruits weren't children to be bossed around.  
"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."  
Droog sighed.  
"Shut up. As I was gonna say, most people in the city don't know that those guys've switched sides, right? So if they can keep their yaps shut, we're gold!"  
Droog was silent for a moment. "On the other hand, perhaps this would be the perfect time to expose them. We'd be letting a sizable chunk of the population know that the Felt is falling apart."  
"Good thinking. Really, this all depends on who attends this thing."  
"In that case, they should come, but pretend not to be with us unless we indicate otherwise," Droog concluded. Slick patted him on the shoulder.  
"Droog, my good friend, what would I do without ya?" Slick bent down and retrieved the fallen items from earlier and returned them. He headed back inside. "This is why you're my right-hand man."

Droog watched the lid close back up with a clatter. He put his cigarettes and lighter away. "I'd forgotten."

Spades Slick stood in front of a door. No, not that Door.

Slick rifled through the contents of his closet, a sea of black and dark gray dotted with the occasional red- not always an original element. This collection of apparel took on the appearance of one belonging to a cartoon character, due to its lack of variety. Slick flipped through the rack a second time- from left to right; cleanest to dirtiest. He could have sworn he had a dress shirt at one point. That, or his and Droog's wash had gotten mixed together and Slick had walked off with the wrong clothes. He started to step away, intending to "borrow" one of Droog's shirts yet again, but stopped. He sighed and turned back.

"Hey, new boss!" Itchy rapped on the semi-open door. "Can I come in?" Slick grimaced and stomped over to the door, slamming it shut and locking it for good measure.  
"Thanks!" Itchy exclaimed from behind, having slipped in at the last second. Slick beat his head against the door, than re-locked it.  
"That a time power thing?"  
"Yep! I stored up a bunch of energy when I was tied up at the mansion!"  
"I see you're only using it for emergencies. What do you want?"  
"You got any clothes I could borrow for the party?" Itchy asked, pushing his way over to the closet. "I tried asking Droog, but he lit a cigarette and put it out on my hand."  
"Then what makes you think I would let you touch my stuff?" Slick snarled, closing the closet door on Itchy's fingers.  
"Look, I know you love our lime green suits, but Doze and I can only push them so far. Either we borrow some clothes, or we borrow some money."  
Slick extracted Itchy's fingers and shoved him away. "It ain't just about the duds. There's somethin' else."  
"Well, speak up! What's this about?" Itchy insisted, rubbing his sore hand.  
"It's about the duds," Slick began. "See, we don't want you lookin' like you're one of us just yet," He slung his arm over Itchy's shoulder, dragging him in front of a mirror. "In a manner of speaking. Let's try to milk this whole double agent deal as long as possible, yeah?"  
"Why does this mirror look familiar?" Itchy disregarded the suggestion. "That design on top, I think I saw it in Die's room!"  
Slick looked up. He let go of Itchy- to the man's mumbled protest- to trace the mirror with his fingertips. A close inspection reported a detailed etching of a skull. One so intricate, it was no wonder Slick never noticed. Either way, it held symbolism unmistakable to shadow magic users such as Slick and Die.  
"So that's where she lifted it!" Slick chortled. "I knew there was a reason I loved that miserable old hag"  
"Yeah, well, you know who told her how to get into Die's room?" Itchy bragged, draping his own arm around Slick.

"I did," announced a familiar, dramatic voice from behind them. "Oh, now look at you two, getting all chummy." Doze sauntered in. Slick threw Itchy's arm off him.  
"How the fuck did you-"  
"Same way as always. You people really need to come up with more efficient locks." Doze twirled a bobby pin around, then pocketed it.  
"Now what do _you_ want?" Slick rubbed the bridge of his nose.  
"Likely, the same as Itchy," Doze began, a subtle grin spreading across his features. "I am in need of some new garments, and you... looked like the best man to ask." The corner of Slick's mouth twitched. He didn't bother replying to Doze.  
"Yes, yes, very nice, but visiting hour is over." Slick nudged both intruders less-than-gently towards the exit.  
"But what about our-" Itchy spat out, scuffing and sliding his shoes against the floor.  
"Give it a rest. We all know damn good and well this is gonna be a Troll Goldilocks scenario. Whatever either of you borrow from me ain't gonna fit right."  
"He's right," Doze nodded. "You're too tall and I'm too short." Slick cracked him one upside the head, but Doze just giggled.  
"If you need new clothes, ask Droog for help," Slick instructed, and at Itchy's frustrated expression, continued: "Just appeal to his sense of fashion first. The guy can't resist that sort of flattery."

The two guests were almost out the door when Doze spoke up.  
"If you're concerned about the fit of your own clothes, why not employ a little of your shadow magic to make alterations? Take the easy way out?"  
"Oh, nice idea! Keep this up and you may be in line for a promotion," Slick said in earnest, dropping his arm away. The other two turned around to see if he was being sarcastic, as his tendency towards monotone made such distinctions almost imperceptible. But Slick had already moved onto the next emotion, which involved contorting and rubbing his chin in concentration. "Except I don't know how to alter my clothes. I can't add with shadow magic, only take away-" His eyes went wide. "That's it! I'll magic my weight off!" His index finger flew into the air triumphantly just as the corners of Itchy's mouth plummeted. Doze rolled his eyes.

"We'll be going then," Doze announced, heading out.  
"Not just yet," Slick stopped him, violet magicka already developing in his fingertips. "I need the both of ya here to make sure I do this right."  
"We don't know anything about shadow magic!" Despite Itchy being confused, he made no move to leave again, and when Slick removed his shirt, he made himself comfortable on Slick's desk. Doze took the desk chair.  
"No big deal. So long as Itchy stops looking at me like a piece of meat and starts looking at Doze again instead, I'll know I did it right."

Doze's subsequent outcry was silenced by the sight of a cool, violet glow enveloping Slick's waist. They watched the raw magicka with reserved awe, realizing it was the first time they had seen the process in action not accompanied by a veritable mindfuck or a life-or-death situation. Slick referred to his ancient tome once more to double-check, and commenced the procedure. In mere minutes, the excess fat was eliminated from Slick's middle.

...Along with skin, organs, and part of his pants. Slick pulled his now blood-drenched hand away and his intestines began to slide out.

"Oh, that isn't right," Slick woozily commented. A second later, there was thud. Itchy had fainted. Then another thud as Slick passed out from blood loss. Doze looked back and forth between the two, but eventually decided to go to Itchy. After waking him up, the two of them sat on the floor, huddled together. They exchanged worried glances.

"Ugh, note to self: try this shit on a lab critter first," Slick groaned. He sat up and poked his stomach, almost completely happy to feel it back in its pre-experiment form.  
"What happened?" Doze asked.  
"Death said he was gonna install a revolving door for me, but I think he was joking," Slick laughed. "Oh, and by the way, Doze, I'm taking away your promotion."  
"Hey, that's not fair!" Itchy shouted, but Doze put a hand on his shoulder. Itchy calmed down, but demanded an explanation nonetheless.  
"I fucking eviscerate myself and you go to help the wilting pansy?"  
"What would you have suggested I do in that situation?" Doze argued. "'Help! Police!'" he mimicked calling out. Slick stared him down, but relented.  
"Fair enough," he shrugged. "Now get outa here."

In that manner, Itchy and Doze left Slick in the condition they found him.


	24. At the Gala Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone prepares for the party. Sawbuck convinces Stitch to join him. Snowman helps Eggs and Biscuits get ready. Random fanapaces talk about it, and Trace and Fin, who weren’t invited, overhear. AD and NB get ready. The Midnight Crew arrive.

In a cramped room on the lower level of the Felt mansion, Stitch sat on a faded green folding chair, feet propped on a sewing box, with a catalog in his hands. He licked his thumb and flipped the page, deliberately ignoring the sound of footsteps approaching the closed door. If he didn't make a sound, maybe they would leave him alone.

The doorknob rotated slowly, creaking as it went, juxtaposed by the visitor on the other side slamming the door open. Sawbuck made his usual jovial, yet brazen entrance, with a sort of stomping waddle.

"Stitch, my good man!" he bellowed, holding an envelope aloft. Stitch regarded him with a smile and nod, then returned to his reading material. Sawbuck continued, undeterred. "I have some splendid news! We have been invited to the grand opening of-" He paused to reread the letter. "-of Nervous Broad and Ace Dick's nightclub!" he finished with a flourish.

Stitch just sniffed, a soft but unmistakably unimpressed noise, and turned another page. "Think I'll stay home, if you don't mind," he informed Sawbuck. "Runnin' outa good thread again. Need to buy some more." As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over and the issue was resolved. Sawbuck had different ideas.

"Let me put it this way," he began, never wavering from the friendly tone which was so common to him. "Either we both go to this party, or I shoot you for making a fat, old man climb down three flights of stairs for no reason, and we both go wherever random chance dictates."

Stitch thought for a second, then tossed the catalog aside. As he followed Sawbuck out the door, he said,  
"You're a real hardass."  
"Thank you."  
"'Welcome. So what's the big deal about this party?"  
"Crowbar has ordered our specific presence at this event," Sawbuck answered. "He expects there will be a bloodbath, if things go right."  
"He's got some big plans, huh?"  
Sawbuck wiped away a tear. "My boy's learning so fast!"

In an elegant bedroom, tucked away on the west side of the Felt Mansion, Snowman rifled through her necklace collection. She chose one strand of black pearls and used her vanity mirror to assess her appearance. The pearls were meretricious. She switched them out for a thin gold necklace with a simple, peridot pendant. All that remained was the precise application of eyeliner, and the selecting of footwear.

She headed towards her private bathroom, when a loud knock on her door stopped her.  
"Ms. Snowman?" Eggs yelled from the other side. "We need some help, please!"  
She opened the door to see Eggs and Biscuits clad in suits of clashing patterns and hues, heads scrunched down between their shoulders, looking sheepish.  
"We can't do these stupid bowties!" Eggs shouted, frowning. Snowman ushered them in, shushing.  
"Indoor voice please," she insisted.  
"Sorry, ma'am," Eggs said. "but Crowbar said we had to look extra fancy for tonight!" Biscuits nodded enthusiastically. Snowman couldn't help but smile at their interpretation of what constituted as "fancy", but it wasn't in a cruel or mocking manner. At least, until she realized the hissy fit Crowbar would throw if he saw them, his associates, dressed in such mortifying garb. Well, he had said once that he appreciated a good challenge, and what better challenge than that of trying to save face in the midst of complete humiliation? Let it never be said that Snowman wasn't thoughtful.

She helped the two men with their bow ties, then fussed over them a bit more, smoothing out wrinkles, adjusting lapels, putting the shoes on the correct feet. Once her handiwork was complete, she stood back to inspect. She gave a deep laugh and the two men joined in.  
"Oh, aren't you two the most handsome men I ever saw?" she proclaimed.  
"Aw, gosh!" Eggs dug his toe into the carpet. Biscuits elbowed him in the side.  
"Are we?" he whispered. Eggs shoved him away.  
"Gee, Ms. Snowman, this was a-awful nice of you," Eggs spit out, blushing. Snowman grabbed them both by the shoulders.  
"Anything for my favorite boys!" She dragged them over to her closet. "Now come help Snowy find her shoes."

On a busy sidewalk across town from the Felt Mansion, Trace and Fin walked side by side, practicing a little cooperative distract-and-pickpocket technique. Trace sized up their targets, looking for anyone foolish enough to carry any money or valuables around. The poor were ignored if not kicked in passing. The old money were spied upon with longing, but left alone. New money knew them too well and wouldn't fall for their schemes. Trace and Fin used to steal prominently from members of the middle class, until they got fed up with digging through ugly family photos and gum wrappers, maxed out credit cards and outdated memberships cards, to find enough boonbucks to make up for the effort.

Tonight, they walked along an unknown path. They pretended to be tourists, not knowing their way around that part of the city- which to an extent, was not a lie. After swiping a thick wallet from an unsuspecting, yet well-dressed schmuck, Trace was ready to call it a night. Just as he was about to rein in Fin, who had started chatting up another stranger- and seemed be to forgetting, once again, that he was not there to make friends- he heard something which piqued his interest.

"...supposed to be the biggest bash of the sweep!" said one passerby.  
"I heard anybody who's anybody will be there," said another, the Offbeat Highbrow.  
"How do you suppose Broad and Dick got the funding for such extravagance?" yet another questioned. "Something smells fishy about the whole thing."  
"At any rate, I wouldn't be caught dead not attending," Highbrow continued.

Trace grabbed Fin by the collar. "You hear that, bud?" Fin shook his head. "So, there's a party 'supposed to happen, and we're not invited. Do you know what we do in this situation?"  
"I don't suppose the answer is, 'Write a sternly worded letter to the hosts', huh?"  
Trace smacked Fin upside the head.  
" _We crash it._ "

In a refurbished building on a street corner, Nervous Broad and Ace Dick were toiling away, finishing up the preparations for the night's big event. Broad was folding napkins into decorative shapes, such as lusii. Dick was arranging the chairs and bar stools to maximize the amount of seating, while maintaining a natural flow.

It was well lit, without being blindingly so. There was a spot for a band to play and room to dance. Vintage movie posters from the time of the trolls hung from the walls, and at every table were vases of flowers and empty wine glasses.

Dick shoved the last chair under a table, and stopped by Broad's to admire her craft; her attention to detail.  
"You ain't planning on making those napkin critters every night, are you?" he blurted out.  
"Charmer," Broad smirked. "This is only for tonight."  
"Yeah, good." Dick pulled the chair back and sat on it.  
"Something on your mind?" Broad asked, moving on to another napkin.  
"Er, what did you end up doing about, you know, the Felt?"  
"I invited them, as per Doc Scratch's instructions," she answered, not missing a beat. Dick shook his head, brows furrowed. "I know we don't get on with them, but Doc Scratch is an influential man. We can't afford to make enemies with him."  
"But these are criminals we're talking about!" Dick protested.  
"You didn't have any qualms about inviting the Crew," Broad retorted.  
"That's totally different, and you know it," Dick stood up. "We've known them for a long time. We can trust them."  
Broad circled the table and stood behind Dick, putting her arms around his shoulders.  
"This will be a good thing. We could use the publicity."  
"This is bad publicity!"  
"Well, it's too late to cancel anything now. We'll just have to make the most of the situation."

He turned to face her, placing his hands on the small of her back.  
"I can't imagine how this could possibly end well," he complained, laughing a little. "But, I suppose you can."

In Droog's car, which was back from the shop and purring beautifully, the Midnight Crew headed off to the nightclub. There was a light drizzle, the air was pleasantly cool, and roads held a steady stream of traffic. Droog took the wheel, Boxcars sat in front with the directions, and Slick and Deuce sat in back. The passengers were getting antsy.

"Slick, please stop kicking my seat," Droog requested through clenched teeth. "Please" was code for "Before I ram my fist down your throat."  
"How'd you know it was me?" Slick whined.  
"Deuce's feet are too short to reach," Droog explained. "Honestly, it's like I'm working for a three sweep old."  
"Are we there yet?" Boxcars asked, feigning exhaustion and boredom.  
"Don't you start."  
"Droog! Slick's on my side!" Deuce joined in the whining.  
"I know what you jokers are trying to do, and it won't work." Droog leaned forward, concentrating on the road ahead. Slick kicked his seat again.  
"C'mon, Gramps! Step on it!" He crawled up between the two front seats. "We're gonna be late!"  
"Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to get dressed five minutes before we had to leave," Droog snapped. He saw Slick out of the corner of his eye.  
"Put your seat belt on!" Droog and Boxcars commanded on unison. Slick sat back and crossed his arms. Deuce leaned over a tugged on Slick's jacket. When he got the other man's attention, he gave a wink.

Deuce inhaled deeply.  
"NINETY-NINE BOXES OF CANDY ON THE WALL, NINETY-NINE BOXES OF CANDY! YOU TAKE ONE DOWN, PASS IT AROUND, NINETY-EIGHT BOXES OF CANDY ON THE WALL! NINETY-EIGHT BOXES OF-"

Droog pressed the accelerator to the floor. All the passengers were thrown back against their seats, then from side to side as he skidded around corners, and finally drifted into a parking space in front of the nightclub.  
"We're here!" he announced in a less-than-pleased tone. Slick and Deuce gave each other high fives.

The building itself was overall unremarkable- it could just as easily have been any random office building. The constant waves of chatter inside its walls, audible from the street, assured the men they had the right spot. They entered the foyer and were almost immediately shoved back out- not on purpose. The sheer amount of occupants made it difficult if not impossible to maneuver.

"How are we gonna thin these crowds?" Boxcars growled. "At this rate, the party'll be over by the time we get in there!" Slick pulled out and flicked open a switchblade in response.  
"Put that away," Droog rolled his eyes.  
"I have a better idea, anyway." Slick shrugged. "Hey, Boxcars, you eat any beans recently-"  
"Please don't finish that thought," Droog insisted, pinching his brow. Slick faced him instead.  
"Okay, then. How about you; did you bring anymore of your cologne with you? 'Cause that stuff could choke an ogre."  
"No," Droog answered tersely. "Please, stop suggesting things. I'm sure, if we act like the reasonable adults we should be, we can get through-"  
"I've got it!" Slick shoved an index finger in the air, inadvertently smacking Droog in the face. "My bad," he mumbled, then turned to Deuce. He started to open his mouth to speak, but Deuce took one look at the grin on Slick's face and shook his head.

"Come on!" Slick begged. "Do the lost troll routine! It always works!" Deuce just looked him right in the eye and crossed his arms. Unless Slick gave an outright order, there was always the option of protesting.  
"There's no way I'm going to stoop that low. It'd be humiliating! I mean, I don't even have the proper costume!" Slick sighed and pulled something from his inside jacket pocket, then started to hand it over. Deuce blinked a few times at the object in Slick's hands.  
"Are you trying to bribe me with scottie dogs?" Deuce asked in a low voice. Slick's eyes went wide.  
"Shit!" He shoved the bag of candy back in and pulled out a wallet. "You didn't see that. Okay, how does this sound to ya?" He pulled out a wad of cash and handed it over. Deuce ran his fingers over it.  
"Sounds like we've got a deal."

Inside the cramped foyer, toes were trod upon, words even of the faintest whispers were heard, and more than two carapaces had to get uncomfortably friendly with total strangers.  
"What's taking so long up there?"  
"Is this the right entrance?"  
"Was that my phone or yours?"  
"Hang on, I can't move my arm."  
"Okay, who forgot deodorant?"  
"Rats, I think I left my phone at home."  
And finally, tearing through all that, the shrill, high-pitched shriek of Clubs Deuce.  
"I want my lusus! I can't find my lusus!" he sobbed, hiding his face behind his hat. Everyone nearby assumed he was a young troll, crying into it, so the plan was already working. The hat also did a nice job of hiding his true age and species. Without looking closely, most people assumed his black scalp was an unflattering haircut, and most others knew too little about trolls to dispute his act. The crowd split apart to let Deuce through, chaperoned by the other three Crew members. The ignored occupants resumed their whispering.  
"I didn't know there were any trolls left!"  
"Maybe this party will be more interesting than I thought!"  
"A child. Hmm. Guess it won't be that kind of party."

At the front of the room, they discovered what was holding everyone up. Or rather, who. Before they could join the party, they had to go through the bouncer, if they could even be called that. It was not the Surly Gatekeeper, as they may have anticipated, but a meek-looking male Prospitian by the moniker of the Luckless Rookie. He was having difficulty making sense of the roster, and quite a few impatient guests were waiting for him to find their names.  
"I do apologize!" He flipped through the papers. "If you'll just give me a moment. Tsk! Some of these are listed by first name, others by last!"  
"If you look under the S's, you should find us," Droog offered. The Rookie looked up at him and froze. He stammered, looked back and forth between him and Slick, then managed to say through a trembling jaw, "Go right in, gentlemen!"  
"Do I know you?" Droog squinted and cocked his head to the side.  
"I don't want any trouble!" the Rookie blurted out. "Any- anymore trouble. With this list," he finished weakly. Droog gave in and followed the other three through the next door.


	25. Negotiations Part 4: Negotiate Harder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slick tries to chat up Cans. Droog hangs out with Sawbuck and Stitch. Boxcars and Deuce corner Clover and demand to know why he’s being a jerk. Itchy accidentally reveals his betrayal to Crowbar.

The actual room where the party was taking place was located below ground level. The stairwell was properly lit and had been revamped recently. The fresh coat of paint hadn't even been disturbed by a pencil etching of a quadrant yet. The main area was roomy even with all the guests, and the smells of aliments and anise wafted through the air, mingling with the lively songs being played.

"You see either of the you-know-whos anywhere?" Slick quietly asked Droog. He looked around for their newest recruits.  
"They're seated at a table near the band. Looks like they're keeping to themselves."  
"Good." Before he could say another word, he found himself facing the hostess, the host not far behind.  
"We saw you come in and simply had to greet you personally!" Broad clasped her hands together.  
"Yeah, how are our favorite enemies doing?" Dick joked. He grabbed Deuce and Boxcars by the arms and pulled them away. "I'm gonna give you guys a tour of the place. You're gonna love the kitchen!"  
"We'll stay here," Slick spoke up, preferring not to get sidetracked. He wanted to soak up as much atmosphere and information as possible, so he would know if and when to act.  
"Suit yourself," Dick said.  
"Suit myself," Slick snorted, his shoulders convulsing as he tried to hold back a laugh. "'Cause we're cards. That's a good one!" While he was amusing himself, Droog was acting as a proper guest. He took Broad's hand in his and politely kissed it. Then he elbowed Slick in the side, who looked bewildered for a second before copying Droog's actions. The three spoke at length- or to be more specific, two of them spoke and one stood around looking antsy at length. Slick did contribute once or twice, but he was more interested in scoping out the place.  
"Hey, Sleuth didn't show up, did he?" he asked. Broad cleared her throat.  
"He, he said he had more pressing matters to attend to."  
"Did he, huh?" Slick shook his head. "That guy needs to get out sometime. I haven't seen him in ages." Broad was silent before softly adding,  
"Neither have we."  
Slick looked up at her with a hint of worry looming over his features, which was washed away as Broad cleared her throat once more.  
"Well, you two are probably anxious to mingle, and it looks like I have more guests to attend to." she gestured around the room and began to point things out. "We've got a bar and a buffet, both fully stocked. Restrooms are that way. And it's hard to tell with everyone wandering around on it, but over there is a dance floor. Well, have fun!" She jogged away with light steps.  
"Great, a buffet," Droog grumbled.  
"My thoughts exactly," Slick nodded. "I'm starving!"  
"I was being facetious," Droog explained. "And do try to control yourself tonight."  
"Yeah, yeah," Slick crossed his arms. "Sheesh. I'm going to the bar first, anyway."

"Droog! Hey! Asshole! Get over here!" called a gravelly voice from a few yards away.  
"I'll meet up with you later," Droog sped away from Slick. Wearing a malicious, dangerous grin, he approached the one who called for him. Stitch.

Stitch and Sawbuck had managed to find some of the comfiest, most luxurious chairs in the entire room, and were lounging on them like kings. Stitch had a few to drink, and Sawbuck's attention was occupied by a heaping plate of food.  
"Stitch, you old skeleton!" Droog exclaimed. "How have you been?"  
"Can't complain," Stitch answered, waving a nearly empty wine glass around. "And 'skeleton'? That's rich comin' from you, ya twig." He patted a seat next to him, except it was more of a punching motion. Droog took the invitation. "Honestly, I'm glad I was able to getcha away from the rest of your cohorts."  
"Why's that?" Droog asked, instantly on edge. Stitch didn't notice.  
"I was afraid you'd got caught in one of 'em's orbits," Stitch spit out, snickering. Droog let out an enthusiastic laugh, then cleared his throat. He put his hand behind his head.  
"Yes, well, some of us like to put emphasis on our health and appearance," he said.  
"Maybe a li'l too much emphasis on appearance," Stitch retorted. "You do know this ain't a weddin', right?"  
"And I hope you're not suggesting that a larger man cannot look his best," Sawbuck teased, turning away from his plate. He ran his fingers over the lapels of his jacket. "It's all in the clothes."  
"Try telling that to the men I know," Droog said. "It's hard enough getting them to conduct themselves in public properly." Stitch put an arm around him.  
"Must be the wine talkin', 'cause your obnoxious elitism isn't pissin' me off tonight."  
"Oh, I'm so sorry I have standards!" Droog's smile grew wider, showing his fangs. "Do I make you uncomfortable talking about this? It must be so difficult, being a such a loathsome, repulsive old coot yourself. I'd pity you if I didn't already hate you."  
"Oh, live a little!" Sawbuck interjected. "Say, have you been to the buffet yet?"  
"I'm trying to avoid it,' Droog grimaced. "I have no desire to eat something countless fingers have already fondled."  
"That's unfortunate," Sawbuck shrugged. "They have some of the most superb pastas I've ever tasted up there." Droog tapped his foot. His eyes flickered over to Sawbuck's plate. He sniffed.  
"Is that basil?"  
"Fresh basil."  
"Fine. Just a little." Droog rose from his seat and headed off to the buffet. "Most of the people here look like the type to wash their hands anyway," he trailed off.

"And here is our brand-new kitchen!" Dick introduced, spreading his arms out as he, Boxcars, and Deuce entered the room. Underneath the newly formed grime and food spills, as well as used pots and pan, was a sleek, well-supplied kitchen, filled with what Dick claimed were state-of-the-art appliances. Not that Deuce or even Boxcars would have known. They gave polite whistles at the new gadgets, and were permitted to play with a few of them.

"I think Slick has something like this in his room," Deuce commented, picking up a boning knife.  
"What? He's been holding out on me?" Boxcars frowned.  
"He probably doesn't realize it's meant for food preparation," Deuce chuckled. "So, Dick, what's in there?" He pointed to a closed door. Dick smiled and walked over.  
"That's the best part. This is our pantry, and even now, it's still almost fully stocked. Wait'll you see what we got."

They walked in to find boxes and jars innumerable, with some larger boxes piled on top.

"You think that's gonna cause any problems?" Boxcars pointed out.  
"What is?" Dick asked.  
"Never mind."  
"Hey, are those wine glasses all the way on the top shelf?" Deuce asked, peering.  
"Yeah, uh, Broad put them up there where I can't reach 'em." He rubbed the back of his head. "Apparently, the more you try to carry in your hands at once, the higher your chances of droppin' and shattering them. Hey, speaking of which, let me show you the wine cellar!" Dick walked out, and Boxcars and Deuce followed.

Slick perused the bar scene and located his target. He chose one bar stool next to Cans, who took up three.  
"So, you come here often?" Slick began. "Wait, let me start over-" Cans gave a soft growl, which Slick ignored. "How 'bout we just cut to the chase. I buy you a drink and you just listen to what I have to say."  
Cans turned to him, one eyebrow raised. He looked at the bar, which was already littered with his empty glasses, and he wasn't even buzzed. Slick frowned. Getting the big guy plastered might not be the most efficient solution, but he needed some way to make Cans forget all the strifes their respective gangs had been through.  
"Okay, I buy you many drinks," Slick waved his hand in the air. A subtle violet aura flickered through his palm.

Droog returned to Stitch and Sawbuck's company from the buffet a second time, holding a few plates of linguine with marinara sauce and garlic bread. The fettuccine alfredo had been excellent, if a bit filling; now he need something zestier to balance it out.

"You shouldn'ta bothered," Stitch remarked. "We already ate."  
"Who said any of this was for you?" Droog joked. Stitch and Sawbuck regarded him with curious expressions. Droog smirked. "Actually, I'm planning to save some for Boxcars. I want him to know what genuine red sauce tastes like."  
"Why, what does it taste like when he makes it?" Sawbuck asked. Droog shivered.  
"Let's discuss something else."  
"'Least you have a cook in your gang!" Stitch grumbled. "Only one of us with half-decent cooking skills is the slowpoke, an' he only ever wants ta cook for his fuckbuddy!"  
Droog nearly choked on a mouthful of pasta.

A tune of slower pace, yet still melodic quality began. The guests were beginning to make their way around comfortably, and they freed up space on the dance floor for actual dancers. Once there was a spot open, Snowman took Eggs by the hand and encouraged him to join her.

"But, but Ms. Snowman, I don't know how to do all that fancy footwork!" he sputtered, stumbling over his own feet, as if to prove a point.  
"Don't worry about that!" she insisted with a broad grin, head held high. "We'll just waltz for a bit, nice and easy. It'll be fun!"  
"O-okay."

They danced through nearly the entire song, and though there was more than one misstep and squashing of toes, they did enjoy themselves. That is, until Eggs tried to make conversation.  
"Have you tried the ravioli yet?" he asked. "It's pretty good!"  
"No, I-" Snowman paused. "Wait, how would you know? You've been with me the whole time; we haven't been to the buffet yet."  
"Um," Eggs stammered, and his dancing slowed to an awkward shuffle. Snowman stopped and looked over at the buffet. Another Eggs was meandering around the buffet, sampling items. She turned back to her dance partner, gave a disapproving look, and held out her hand. Eggs looked down and handed over his egg timer.  
"You know better," Snowman chided as she reset the timer and the other Eggs faded away. The clatter of a ladle being dropped was all that remained of evidence of his existence.  
"'S a dumb rule."  
"Come with me," Snowman ordered, pinching Eggs' cheek and pulling him over to a table.  
"I'm sorry! It's not that dumb!" Eggs yelped. Snowman smiled.  
"You're not in trouble," she explained. "All that dancing worked up my appetite. And you've put me in the mood for ravioli!"

They joined Biscuits, who was sitting alone at a table, unfolding and refolding the napkins. He didn't seem to notice the others approaching.  
"Hey!" Eggs greeted, taking a seat. "Whatcha making?" No response. "Biscuits!"  
Biscuits' fingers stopped moving. "Oh, hello. How are you, Eggs?"  
"Good! Snowy taught me to dance! So whatcha making with the napkins?"  
Biscuits looked down. "Um, I don't know."  
"What do you mean?" Eggs pressed on. Biscuits sunk down into his seat, or tried to. Snowman watched them interact. She cleared her throat and began to change the subject.  
"Say, Biscuits, have you seen Slick anywhere? I miss my darling little mutt."  
He pointed to the bar. Slick was in the middle of what must have been a fascinating conversation with Cans, judging by the entranced look Cans was giving him.

Boxcars and Deuce rejoined the party, satisfied with the tour they had been given. Meanwhile, Dick was more than ready to get back to his matesprit and see how she was faring in all the excitement. Boxcars caught sight of Snowman, who was now coming back from the buffet with an armful of plates. He flagged her down, and she invited him and Deuce to sit at her table.

The five of them had a pleasant meal and a pleasant talk, until Biscuits felt a tickle at his heel and accidentally kicked Snowman in the shin as a result. She hissed in pain and reached down to rub the sore spot. Eggs jumped up, intending to come to her aid, but tripped and slammed onto the table. Biscuits and Boxcars pulled him up and dabbed at the food smeared on his suit before it stained. Deuce noticed that Snowman was still leaning towards the floor.  
"Are you alright?" Deuce asked.

Snowman peered at the petite figure under her feet. Clover was unlacing the straps on her high heels, having already tied Eggs', Biscuits', and Boxcars' shoelaces together. He failed to notice her stare or her strong hand reaching towards him.

Snowman didn't respond to Deuce, and instead chose to clutch the troublesome Felt by the shirt collar and hoist him up for everyone to see. Boxcars began to lunge forward.  
"You!-" he bellowed, ready to take a step forward. Snowman held up a hand, then pointed down at everyone's feet. As they all retied their shoes properly, Clover wriggled his way out of Snowman's grasp. Boxcars and Deuce gave chase. Snowman shrugged.  
"Who wants to see if I can knock Slick's hat off with a balled-up napkin?" she exclaimed.

"We're good pals, aren't we, Cans?" Slick encouraged, hand still aloft. Cans nodded, neither blinking nor breaking his gaze from Slick' hand. "We're like two peas in a pod. Well, maybe just you. Anyway-"

A rogue napkin grazed the back of his head and broke Slick's concentration. Cans, no longer spellbound, reached forward with a snarl and broke Slick's fingers.

Slick let out a strangled, yet noiseless cry as the bones shattered and splintered. He tried to abscond, but Cans' hand just enveloped his own and held tight. Cans reared his other fist back and Slick clenched his teeth, bracing himself. There was no time to dodge. The large fist sailed forward.

_Cloned. Paperwork. Paperwork. Paperwork. Dignitary. Camaraderie. Alliances. Usurpation. Betrayal. Exile. Survival. Death. No hope. No hope. Salvation. Midnight City. Midnight Crew. Death. Shadow magic. Fear. Insomnia. Lust. Droog._

Deuce darted around legs, both of the table and carapacian variety, in his pursuit of Clover. Boxcars barreled through the room, prepared to clear the way with his fist if necessary. Everyone gave him wide berth. They were closing in on their target, had a direct path to him, when a group of oblivious characters interrupted that path. As Deuce got tangled under the Offbeat Highbrow's long skirt and Boxcars had to help extricate him and diffuse the situation, Clover once again made his escape.

"Beg your pardon, ma'am, it won't happen again," Boxcars said, his words belying a more sardonic and impatient temperament. _Damn it, people, watch where you're going!_ He bowed his head and offered to help the old woman smooth out her skirt.  
"Oh, never you mind about this," Highbrow smiled courteously, but her eyes remained steady and cool. _Curse these young ruffians. Can't a gal go anywhere without running into catastrophe?_ Boxcars backed down.  
"We should, uh, get," Boxcars jerked his thumb to the side in a vague direction.  
"We're trying to find someone who-" Deuce began, going quiet as the Highbrow's brows raised slightly and her mouth set into a straight line. One of her friends, whose gaze had been elsewhere, snapped her head as she saw a flurry of motion. She tapped the Highbrow on the shoulder and pointed in the direction of movement. The rest of the group followed her gesture to the sight of a door swinging closed. Neither Boxcars nor Deuce said any further words, but simply marched towards the door. Highbrow called out after them,  
"Make him pay."

Clover had slipped into the kitchen and attempted to hide in the pantry. While the act of hiding was technically successful, it didn't take a genius to figure out where he holed himself up. Boxcars didn't give him the chance to defend himself, and instead began hurling dirty dishes and silverware into the seemingly empty room. Clover yelped as he dodged a pizza cutter, then covered his mouth. The dishes were piling up and he was running out of places to go. More than once, he nearly stumbled over an item. _My time powers are fading. I've been away too long,_ he mourned. _Might as well come out. They know I'm here._

He took a deep breath and scurried out into the kitchen, a barrage of forks just barely missing him save for one which seemed impaled in his elbow. He panicked until he noted the lack of pain or blood. The fork had not fully punctured the fabric of his jacket. Still, this act had taken a moment too long- that is, that moment was all Deuce needed to pull a card from his deck and transform it into his signature club. He gripped it in both hands and began pacing towards Clover. Fear washed over him, taking with it the ability to move. Just as Deuce was swinging his club back, Clover willed one foot up and back down. Then the other. Going off the first idea that popped into his head, he turned back to the pantry. Boxcars beat him to it, blocking the path. Clover hesitated, aware that he was trapped between the two men.

Deuce's club was close to making contact with his skull. He wouldn't miss, even if he wanted to, at this point. He had put too much force into the swing. As for Boxcars, Clover couldn't get around him. But he had made the honest mistake of standing with his legs slightly too far apart. Praying that his luck had not slipped completely away, Clover sprinted forward and slid between Boxcars' legs on his side, then promptly crashed into the display of wine glasses.

"Y'know, that twerp never so much as touched a spool of thread in his life! And here, he's tellin' me how to repair my effigies!" Stitch groused, swinging his thankfully empty wine glass around. Droog sighed.  
"I'm sorry; I've lost track. Which one are you complaining about now, Fin or Doze, or-"  
"Both of 'em. All of 'em. Any of 'em. Bunch of simpletons and ingrates, the whole lot. Oh, present company excluded, 'course.'  
"Of course," Sawbuck nodded.  
"Do you have any other fascinating stories?" Droog asked in a bored, dry tone.  
"You think you're so smart! I can tell what you're up to!" Stitch point at Droog, or more accurately, the side of Droog's chair. "You're just trying to weasel information outa me. Ain't gonna work, buddy! Ha! Just like this one time, when Fin..."

Stitch continued with his next yarn of gossip. Droog kept an ear out for any incriminating elements, but most of his attention was invested in the food he was eating. Each plateful was more delectable than the last. Sadly, he would soon have to stop. Between the chicken carbonara and the eggplant parmesan, he began to feel the telltale tightness signifying a well-fed belly. Logic told him to quit before he regretted his actions. His taste buds had other plans. He devoured the remains of his current meal with fervor, each bite a joy to tear through and ecstasy on his tongue, satisfying going down his throat and pleasantly settling in his stomach. Soon, lethargy began to overtake him, and Stitch's words sounded more like strange honking noises. Droog scooped up the last few spoonfuls, trying to remember to nod or say, "Uh-huh," periodically. He pushed the plate away and sat back, hands resting on his stomach. He was far past the point of being comfortably full, and more than a little grateful that he had opted to wear suspenders rather than a belt. He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and took that opportunity to release a soft belch behind it.

"Finally had enough, then?" Sawbuck laughed, albeit sympathetically. Droog stretched.  
"I am a bit full." _I am going to burst._  
"Heh, I dunno know where you skinny guys put it!" Stitch spoke up, abandoning his story.  
"Gee, I've never heard that line before," Droog said. Stitch slammed his glass down and the stem broke.  
"'Case you forgot, I ain't like your dumbass cohorts. I can reco'nize sarcasm."  
"My dumbass cohorts can so recognize sarcasm," Droog retorted.  
"Well, I ain't gonna stand for it!"  
"Oh, yeah? What are you going to do?' Droog lazily goaded him on. Something in his brain told him it to stop. Probably that pesky logic again. What did it know? What was Stitch going to do, poke him with the broken stem? He was so wasted, he'd probably stab Sawbuck. Or himself.  
"You been to the dessert bar yet?" Stitch asked, grinning so broadly it looked like his stitches might split. "I heard they have crème brûlée."  
Droog paused. He could pass up most desserts, but crème brûlée was his weakness. How could Stitch have known? Did Sawbuck tell him? "You bastard," he muttered to no one in particular. He hoisted himself up and trudged over to procure the creamy delicacy.

He returned with four bowls.  
"I took the liberty of getting bowls for you two, as well," he explained.  
"Thank you," Sawbuck took one graciously.  
"You forget how to count?" Stitch raised an eyebrow.  
"No, the last one is mine too," Droog held his head high. There was no way he'd let Stitch think he'd won.  
"All three of 'em can be yours," Stitch stared him down. "I don't go for that sweet shit."  
Droog paled. "Fine! Good!" his mouth agreed before the rest of him could make a decision. He dug his spoon into the dessert, already salivating as the sugary topping cracked in half. As he tasted the first bite, all he could think was, _Please, Godhead Pickle Inspector, never let Boxcars or Doze learn to how make this. I'd get so huge, I could never leave the hideout._

The first bowl went down smoothly, somehow easily finding room in Droog's packed stomach. The second bowl was more difficult to fit in, and his vest began to rise up as he expanded to accommodate the surplus food. He set the empty bowl aside and tugged his vest back down in embarrassment. He reached for the third bowl, but hesitated. His arm trembled as it was held in the air and in indecision. Sawbuck made an offer.  
"Why don't you and I split that?"  
"If you really want some, I suppose we could do that," Droog agreed, trying to save face. He handed the bowl to Sawbuck, who severed the topping and scooped half of it out onto a plate, then handed the bowl back. Droog choked down his half, eager to see the look on Stitch's ugly face. It would be worth the terrible indigestion he'd get later. When he finished eating, he turned to Stitch.

Stitch had long since passed out. Droog exhaled impatiently and Sawbuck smirked.  
"Take it from me, Droog," Sawbuck began. "Gorging should be done for one reason only- for the love of the food."  
"Oh, there was love," Droog affirmed. He leaned back and absentmindedly patted his belly. The touch was a bit too similar to a slap and sent waves of pain through him. He winced and moved his hand to his side. "But I'll keep that in mind."

Before Clover could begin to assess the damage the shards of glass had done, Boxcars stomped in, grabbed him by the collar, dragged him out, and ignored the protests as glass slivers shredded his foe's socks.

"These are brand new socks, and I think one of those pieces actually cut m- ack!" Clover stopped as Boxcars swung him into the air with one hand.

"Where do you get off?" Boxcars roared, giving the little Felt a shake. Clover grasped at Boxcar's large fingers and tried to keep himself steady. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a terrified squeak and a gasp of breath came out. _I'd heard of going out with a whimper, but I didn't know it could be literal!_ Clover thought regretfully.

"Answer me!" Boxcars continued, bearing his teeth. At that, Clover gained a sudden awareness of his current predicament and began squirming and stammering out excuses. Boxcars closed his lips and turned Clover to face him. "On second thought, don't say a thing. I don't want to hear anything come outa yer stupid throat unless it's a death rattle," Boxcars bared his teeth again. "The only reason you're not dead already is because you look too stringy."  
"Boxcars, put him down and stop scaring him," Deuce ordered.  
"Are you crazy? He'll just run off!" Boxcars argued.  
"No, I won't!" Clover spoke up.  
"Shut up! I don't care if you want to be a shit to me, but nothing you say could justify how you've treated my best friend, who until now has shown you nothing but kindness, despite having every reason not too," Boxcars snapped, fuming by this point.  
"I know!" Clover wailed.  
"That's just what I expected y- what?" Boxcars was taken aback.  
"If you're going to kill me, hurry up and do it already," Clover sighed. He felt the last of his luck slip away. "You've won. You've always been the winners." Boxcars looked to Deuce for instructions.  
"Put him down," Deuce repeated firmly, frowning until Boxcars obeyed him. He sensed that letting Clover crash to the floor and break his neck would have been a bad idea, so with a huff, he set him down gently. Somewhat gently. He back away with his hands still in grip-mode, and Deuce readied his club again, but Clover just sat there limply. Deuce approached him,- Clover didn't even flinch or look up, accepting his fate- converted his weapon into a harmless card, and sat down.

"Why?" Deuce asked.  
"Why what?" Clover repeated, though he knew the answer. Deuce didn't expand on his question. Clover swallowed. "So is this the part where you probe me for information and rough me up if I don't comply?"  
"You came to the wrong crew member for that," Deuce chuckled. "I don't want to hurt you."  
"What? But you were about to brain me!" Clover pointed out. Deuce pulled a card out again, and it turned into a club. He easily lifted it up and tossed it into Clover's lap. It was a toy, hollow inside.  
"I was just trying to scare you," he smirked. He took the toy back and put it back in his deck. "Look, kid, I'm not mad or anything, I promise." Deuce put his arm over Clover's shoulder. "Trust me, Boxcars has enough fury to compensate for our entire group." Indeed, Boxcars was angrily pacing back and forth as Deuce spoke. "But I am hurt. I offer you my trust, and you betray that?"  
"Maybe I never wanted it," Clover snapped. Deuce narrowed his eyes.  
"Watch what you say," he said in a low voice. "You currently straddle a fine line between ally and enemy."  
"Oh, quit pretending like we've ever had an alliance!" Clover rolled his eyes with enough force to produce tears. At least that's how he explained it later. "I've only cooperated with you guys in the past so that I wouldn't get killed!"  
Deuce didn't respond to that, and aside from Boxcars' audible footsteps, the room was silent for a moment.  
"You don't mean that," Deuce finally said. Clover curled up his knees and looked down. "You're not the type of person to do things purely out of necessity; you do things because you want to. Now really, what is it you want?" This time, Clover didn't respond. Then, he answered in a voice so small, Deuce had to ask him to repeat it. Clover shook his head.

_I don't deserve it._

_But I'm tired of running away._

"Okay, fine, here's the truth. I was jealous," Clover spat. "Because, you, you've got this big... meatshield of a bodyguard-" He gestured to Boxcars. "-who's the best meatshield anyone could ask for. He'd take a bullet for you. I've seen him take a- hell, I've seen him take a cannonball for you! He cares about you," he finished softly.  
"Well, don't you have both Quarters and Cans on your side?" Deuce asked.  
"Ha! Hardly! Quarters doesn't have time for anyone and Cans would sooner punt me through a wall than offer me protection!"  
"Oh," was Deuce's weak, slightly surprised reply. "Still, that doesn't explain everything."  
"No. No, it doesn't," Clover sighed.

_The full truth is, I've lost too many people. Not just allies, but people I would consider family. They just weren't as lucky as me, I guess. Sometimes, I wonder how much I was to blame; if I was absorbing their luck. Then I see you two, and I want what you have. Since that's impossible, I try to destroy it._

"What if," Deuce began. "and I'm just thinking out loud. What if Boxcars was your 'meatshield', too?"  
"Hold the fuck up!" Boxcars interrupted. "After all he's put us through, you want me to help him out?"  
"Join us, Clover," Deuce demanded, dodging Boxcars' interjection. "You will not be ignored."  
"I can't! I-" Clover stammered. "I would just... end up..." he trailed off. _Would I ruin them or drive them away like everyone I've ever cared for? Or would the absence of my time powers prevent that?_  
"Yeah, listen to him. He 'can't'," Boxcars agreed. "Now, if we're not gunna kill him, let's just send him crawling back to Crowbar."  
"Boxcars," Deuce warned, and the other man relented.  
"Dammit, I just don't get you."  
"What do you say, Clover?" Deuce asked. Clover was wearing down.  
"But doesn't Slick hate us 'green torsos'?"  
"Yes, but sometimes there are other things which override his hatred," Deuce explained, then whispered, "He's already recruited two of you anyway."  
"He did?" Clover asked, shocked. "Wait- so when you were taking Itchy and Doze... that's why I haven't seen them in forever!" He stopped. "Wait. Why do you care so much about what becomes of me?"  
"That is my business," Deuce insisted. "Now this is your last chance, because people are going to start wondering where we all are. We are offering you the chance to be more than an afterthought."  
"That's a royal 'we'," Boxcars harrumphed.  
"Would you really have me?" Clover asked reluctantly. Boxcars groaned.  
"Godhead, do ya hafta act like that? It's not a damn marriage proposal!"  
Clover giggled. He couldn't help it. He held out a hand.  
"Okay. If Slick lets me join, I'm in."

Deuce helped the fourth Felt to his feet and led the way out, Boxcars following closely behind. As they walked, Clover felt something replace his lost luck. He couldn't put a name to it, but it was a force he could learn to like.

With his eye still closed tight, Slick waited for an indication that he had been socked into another time- a change in background noise, atmosphere, anything. It never came. He opened his eye to see his savior, clad in a long green coat and white and green hat, holding his attacker's arm behind his back.  
"Quarters!" Slick exclaimed. "Boy, am I glad to see you."  
"Cans, you know the rules," Quarters calmly urged. "Doc Scratch said not to-"  
Cans yanked his arm out of Quarters' grasp. He gave the man such a stare as to shut him up and send him looking at his feet. He did likewise for Slick, cracking his knuckles as well. Slick jumped, his heart trying to leap out of his throat, but as soon as Cans got up and walked away, he took control of his emotions and called out taunts after him.  
"Hey, c'mon, Quarters! Let's get him while his back is turned!" Quarters put a hand on Slick's shoulder and pulled him back down onto his bar stool.  
"What gives?" Slick whined. "And why were you cowering with your tail tucked between your legs just then?"  
"Sometimes, you can't win; you can't fight. And someday, you'll learn that," Quarters mused. Slick huffed.  
"Maybe you can't." He shook his head. 'Can't believe you'd just let him go after he dared to look at us like that."  
"That look wasn't what you think."  
Slick tried to let this process, but gave up and demanded confirmation.  
"You mean that it wasn't a threat?"  
"To you, it was. To me, it was a reminder."  
"Of?"  
"Of the fact that he isn't the only one flouting the rules."  
Slick nodded, beginning understand at last.  
"One fact many know is that I have always had the utmost loyalty towards Doc Scratch," Quarters said at a normal volume level, then added in a hushed voice: "Whispers of treachery- whispers with me as the main player- have been making their way around." He murmured the words into Slick's ear, a soft, yet cool and dangerous tone. He placed his hand on the back of Slick's neck, unnerving Slick as he lowered one finger at a time. "I can think of few people who might get some outlandish ideas about me. You're one of them. Please, assure me that I can trust you."  
"Wait, that's why you saved me? You wanted answers?" Slick laughed. "I thought you were calignous or flushed for me!"  
Quarters pulled away. "Alright. You're in the clear. Such an act would require at least a small degree of cunning."  
"Hey, what are you saying, exactly?" Slick jumped down from his seat and began to reach for a knife. The attempt to close his mangled fingers around an object was excruciating. He calmed down once again. "'Can't fight', huh? This what you're talking about?"  
"Congratulations; you passed the first lesson," Quarters walked off to join Cans, a hint of a smile on his features.

Slick flipped his sprite, giving him the opposite, not broken, yet magically weaker hand instead. As for the broken (and currently nonexistent) hand, he'd figure out how to heal it later. Then, he generated a few violet flickers in his new hand, trying to get used to the practice of magic. Like writing with one's non-dominant hand, it could be done, but required greater control and effort just to do the bare minimum.

"Hey, boss!" Boxcars called from a few yards away. Slick looked over and found Boxcars and Deuce both heading towards him, shoving Clover in front of them as they walked.  
"Put that thing back," Slick pointed at Clover. "You don't know where he's been."  
"Since when d'you care about hygiene?" Boxcars quipped.  
"We have a huge favor to ask," Deuce announced.  
"Clubs, Clubs, Clubs," Slick t'sked. "You guys are two of my three closest companions. Don't use words like 'favor'; it makes it sound like you'll owe me something. And you won't."  
"We want Clover to join our gang!" Deuce said. Slick looked at Deuce, then at Clover, then back at Deuce.  
"Yeah, forget what I said. You'll owe me big-time."  
"So does that mean I'm in?" Clover spoke up timidly.  
"Are you kidding?" Slick snapped, and Clover bowed his head, but kept his eyes up. "Recruit the guy who cost me my arm? And hell, probably my eye, too, for all I know." Boxcars grinned, feeling vindicated.  
"Ha!, I knew he would say-"  
"Hell yes!"  
"What?" Boxcars, Deuce, and Clover asked in unison.  
"Look, this is clearly a man who knows what he's doing. I'd rather be able to keep tabs on him," Slick explained. "Doesn't mean I have to be happy about the arrangement. Now let's rough him up so no one suspects anything."

Deuce and Clover turned to each other and Deuce failed to suppress a smile. They managed to keep their new union under wraps, but neither could contain their joy. It even infected Boxcars, who, with a shrug of defeat, slammed his hand down on Clover's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze- before shoving him into the wall.

They weren't the only ones with such a request.

While three of the members of the Midnight Crew pretended to antagonize Clover, the fourth member made his way over to them, arm in arm with the Felt's resident tailor. It wasn't clear who was holding up whom, especially since Sawbuck followed closely behind both of them, pushing them back up when they swayed.

"Great, more stragglers," Slick observed. "Deuce, Boxcars, you handle Clover. I'll see to these guys."  
"Aw, t' hell with ya," Stitch slurred. "Just like that jackass, Doc Scratch, you are. Maybe I don't wanna join yer crappy gang! You think you rule the world? Can't tell me what to do; I'll fight y-"

Slick reached forward and placed a glowing, purple hand on Stitch's mouth. He held it for a second, then pulled away. Stitch gasped for breath.  
"Fuck, head feels like it's gonna split," Stitch grumbled. "You sober me up?"  
"I'm not dealing with you if you can't even stand up on your own. What do you want?"  
"You couldn'ta skipped the hangover part?" Stitch rubbed his temple.  
"What do you want?" Slick repeated, stomping over towards Stitch.  
"I believe he wants to join us," Droog spoke up. "He's done nothing but complain about his allies all evening."  
"Is this true?" Slick asked.  
"Maybe, but shh!" Stitch moved his hands in a "keep your voices down" motion. Slick stepped back and paced in front of the others. Then, without warning, he flipped his sprite and displayed his injured hand. Droog frowned.  
"Think you can fix this?" Slick asked. Stitch took his hand, using a delicate touch.  
"With an effigy, it'll be a snap."  
"Then you're in," Slick confirmed. He switched his sprite again. "Anyone else?" Slick looked around, then pointed at Sawbuck. "How, 'bout you, tub-o-lard?"  
"Watch your mouth!" Stitch warned, coming to his friend's defense. "That is, if you ain't gonna watch your figure." He and Droog high-fived each other.  
"It's okay, Stitch!" Sawbuck just laughed. "I've been called worse, and it always rolls off my back. Hmm, there's a joke in there, isn't there? Something about rolls" Stitch and Slick chuckled and even Droog cracked a smile.  
"Why don'tcha come with us?" Slick asked. Sawbuck put up his hands.  
"No, no, this 'tub' belongs with the Felt," he insisted.  
"That's a shame," Slick lamented, but as for as he was concerned, the matter was closed. Stitch did not feel the same, and escorted Sawbuck away.

"Please, give this some thought," Stitch urged. "We could be somebodies again; we could-"  
"The answer is 'no', Stitch," Sawbuck repeated, his voice firm and commanding, with a twinge of sorrow. "My place is with the Felt." He looked up and sighed, and began reminiscing. "Even though I'm not the official first member of the gang, I've been around long to watch most of 'em grow up. I led the gang before my health started failing and Crowbar took over- you remember, right?"  
"Gonna miss ya. Don't wanna be yer enemy, either," Stitch mumbled. "Sorry, gettin' all weepy on ya."  
"Stitch, my good man, you'll never be my enemy." Sawbuck pulled Stitch into a such a fierce hug that Stitch complained about his spine breaking. "Now you do what you must, and I'll cover for your absence. But don't ask any more of me."

Stitch pulled Sawbuck's head towards him until their foreheads touched. "Take care, y'hear?"  
"Will do," Sawbuck confirmed. A couple of carapacian dames began swarming them, since they were no longer flanked by the infamously dangerous members of the Midnight Crew. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe these lovely gals want a word with me." He straightened his tie and joined the girls, talking them by the arms. The three walked away, the girls giggling as Sawbuck regaled them with clever anecdotes and flattery.

"Pardon me, but do you know 'Skies of Skaia'?" Doze approached the house band and give his request. The band leader nodded and began to count off. Doze sat back down and moved his hand to take his partner's.  
"Oh, Itchy, isn't this just-"

Itchy's hand wasn't there. Neither was the rest of him.

Doze gave a scan of the place- slow, but thorough, as usual- and found Itchy had made his way to the bar. And he was drunk as an odorcritter. And he was getting friendly with Crowbar.

Until that night, Doze had no idea he was even capable of running.

"So where's that lanky boyfriend of yours?" Itchy pried.  
"We... had a disagreement," Crowbar answered, taking a swig. "There were... words."  
"Too bad! He's missing out!" Itchy spun around on his bar stool, arms splayed out.  
"I'm sure he's perfectly content hiding in the mansion. Yet again."  
"Yeah, I guess the mansion was pretty spiffy, once you got rid of the cobwebs," Itchy agreed. Crowbar gave a small laugh and was about to continue the conversation, but something gave him pause.  
"'Was'?" Crowbar repeated. Before Itchy could figure out where he went wrong, Doze was there to do damage control.  
"Well, with no one consistently cleaning it, you can't expect an entire mansion to stay, er, 'spiffy' forever, can you?" he butted in.  
"No, I suppose not," Crowbar agreed. Doze led Itchy away while Crowbar was thinking. He added a final comment: "The next time you strife with Spades Slick, send him my regards."  
"Oh, that'll be a cinch! I can do that when we go back to the hideout!" Itchy blurted.

Doze faltered. _Itchy's really done it this time. He's outed us as traitors! Wait- no, he only technically outed himself. Do I play dumb and pretend the other half of that "we" is someone else? Do I throw Itchy under the bus like that? No! No! Don't you even think of- but then, if one of us can get out of this unpleasant situation without causing any further problems, that is me, maybe they can help the other, that is, him-_ Doze's reverie was cut short as he was pulled away by the hand. The scenery wasn't blurring, and Doze himself was using his own feet, so Itchy must have been dragging him the traditional way.

"What's happening?" Doze asked.  
"I fucked up," Itchy answered bluntly. "Crowbar took a swing at me. Then he went for you. You were spacing out, so I knew I had to get you away."  
"Oh," Doze breathed. He blushed and grasped Itchy's hand even tighter.  
"C'mon, we hafta find Slick and get the fuck outa here."

They didn't have to search for long, as Slick was looking for them at the same time. He spotted them in the crowd and called out for them. They ran over to find him wedging himself between Droog and Stitch.

"Hey! Give me a hand with these two hatebirds, will ya?" Slick beckoned. Droog made a half-hearted attempt to backhand Stitch, and wound up wiping his hand on the man's coat. Stitch tried to slug Droog and nearly toppled over. "I'm already palin' it up with Droog, so I'm not really in any position to be ashin' with him, too"

"We've got bigger problems," Itchy interrupted. "Crowbar knows."  
Slick's eye widened. He stepped away from Droog and Stitch, who went for each other's throats- and lips, to evaluate the situation.

_What's the score now? They still have Cans, Quarters, Biscuits, and Eggs. All the muscle. Plus Sawbuck. Maybe he could- hey where the hell did he go? Oh, well. Let's see. We have Itchy, Doze, Clover, and Stitch._

_Yeah, we're fucked._

_Wait! Snowman's here! Yes, no one would do anything crazy with her around! Oh, I could just kiss that huge bitch!_

"If the secret's out, then it's out," Slick shrugged. "I guess you're full-fledged Crew members, now. So let's prove it. Where's Crowbar?"  
Itchy and Doze looked at each other uneasily.  
"He was chasing us, last I checked," Itchy answered. "But we were weaving around, and I'm not sure where we went. Before that, he was at the bar."  
"I could tell you where we went," Doze said.  
"How? You were less paying attention than I was!" Itchy asked with surprise.  
"Because we left a trail of destruction in our wake," Doze gestured to the path of upturned tables and chairs, spilled food and drink, and people dusting themselves off after being knocked down. They headed in the direction of nearest casualty and went from there. As Slick fended irate partygoers off with a knife and a hiss, Itchy spoke his reluctance.

"Are you sure you wanna do this now? Maybe we could just slip out-"  
"Relax! With Snow around, everything will be fine," Slick assured him, his head held high.  
"Um," Doze stammered, raising his hand as though to say something, then lowering it.  
"What? Spit it out," Slick ordered.  
"I don't see Snowman around. I think she stepped out to have a smoke," Doze finished as quickly as he could manage. Slick bristled. One fortunate carapace barely dodged a stab in the lung.  
"Okay. Okay. We don't need her," Slick said, straining to keep his voice from cracking. _Of all the lousy times! I am gonna throttle that huge bitch!_

Finding Crowbar proved even easier than expected; he had returned to the bar. He was nursing a glass of wine, and it looked like it wasn't his first.

"Hey, Crowbar! Anyone sitting here?" Slick pulled out the bar stool next to him.  
"Fuggoff."  
"Great!" Slick sat down. "Man, you are sloshed! What kinda wine 're you drinking?" He grabbed the wineglass from Crowbar's hand. Crowbar snatched it back.  
"'s mine! Keep your hands off my stuff!" Crowbar grumbled, not bothering to correct the unnecessary plurality.  
"It's too late for that," Slick smirked. "I take it you know by now that you are at a net loss of two gangsters, and I am at a net gain of two gangsters."  
"What's your point?" Crowbar asked unenthusiastically.  
"I hope you're not too wasted for a little negotiations," Slick began, emphasizing the last word to guarantee he had his enemy's attention.  
"I said get t' the point," Crowbar snapped.  
"What are you willing to pay to get these guys back?" Slick jerked his thumb at Itchy and Doze. "Some green for some green."  
"You kidding? Those two fuckin' liabilities? You can keep 'em!" Crowbar shouted. "'Felt One' an' 'Felt Two'? Got that right! First one pisses me off, second one can't do shit!" Doze had to poke both Slick and Itchy to keep them from snickering. "'xactly who you pulled away from us doesn't matter. What matters is that you made a damn fool a' me!"  
"Well, maybe I wouldn't have to if you weren't such a stupi- no that wouldn't work. You were such a- hmm," Slick scratched his temple and tried to work out the best put-down. Crowbar groaned impatiently and took a swig from his glass.

"Ah, nothing's coming to me," Slick shrugged and laughed. "Well, I gave you a chance." He paused. "Might as well mention, we got Clover and Stitch, too."

Crowbar nearly spit out his drink. He opened his mouth to call out, but there was no sound; only blood.

"Good Frog!" Itchy jumped away.  
"Huh. That should've just kept him silent," Slick took the wineglass and inspected it. "Musta used too much magic." Meanwhile, Crowbar was thrashing around, pawing at his throat. "Want me to help you with that?" Crowbar stared at him intently, finding it to painful to nod. "Fine." Slick placed his hand on Crowbar's neck. "I should warn you: I don't really know what I'm doing." Crowbar jumped back, but the violet magic had already enveloped his neck. Slick still didn't know the details of Felt biology, but if they were anything like carapaces, he could estimate how to repair a damaged windpipe. And he needed a guinea pig: if he could heal someone with his non-dominant hand, that would be a useful thing to know. Plus, he couldn't let the man die here. Too many witnesses.

When the bleeding stopped, Slick declared himself done. "There. I saved your life. Now, let's all put this behind us-"  
"We'll do no such thing," Crowbar hissed, his voice working, but his throat too raw and irritated for much more than a whisper. "You think you're the only man who knows how to be sneaky?" He pulled a phone out of his jacket pocket. "I contacted one of my underlings while you weren't looking."

This time Slick lost his voice, and no magic was involved. "Who?" he finally managed. Crowbar gave a lopsided grin.  
"Oh, it's just-"

"Woohoo!" came an enthusiastic bellow. Trace. "Where's the booze?"  
"What is this? A funeral?" Fin shouted. "Let's get things heated up!"  
"Oh, no," Crowbar muttered.  
"That's your deus ex machina?" Slick asked. Crowbar ignored him. He tumbled down from his stool and set off to stop his intruding cohorts. Harsh crashes, bangs, and screams sprang up out of the otherwise harmonious affair. Most guests were distracted.  
"I'd say they were ours," Doze observed.

Boxcars put his arms under Clover's and lifted him in the air. "An' this one's a full nelson! I dunno know Nelson is, but I like his style!"  
"Very good!" Clover squealed, kicking his legs. "But I think you can put me down! No one's watching us!"  
"Huh? What happened?" Boxcars looked around and dropped Clover to the ground. Clover pouted and rubbed his tailbone where he landed.  
"Our chance to get outa here just happened!" Slick called out to him. He had Itchy and Doze tailing behind him, and Droog and Stitch stumbling along behind them. Boxcars didn't ask stupid questions; he just scooped Deuce and Clover up in his arms and followed Slick out. They all piled into Droog's car- with Droog taking the driver's seat- and sped off.

Once they all made it safely to the hideout- not including a few scrapes the car suffered- the first order of business was determining who would bunk where. Droog would remain with Slick in the latter's room, and Itchy and Doze would stay in his room, as they had been. Deuce and Clover would room with Boxcars, upon the basis that they "wouldn't take up much space." Stitch got Deuce's room, but only when Deuce agreed that Stitch was one of the few people he would trust around all his costumes.

After that, Stitch was commanded to fix Slick's hand. Without an effigy, it would be impossible. Fortunately, Deuce was willing to provide some material. Stitch got to work making a partial effigy consisting of a head, part of a torso, an arm, and one of Slick's backup hats.

While he was busy sewing, everyone else got comfortable and made friendly conversation- or in some cases, politely disdainful conversation. Only Slick noticed Droog slipping off to their bedroom, clutching his abdomen. He jumped up to follow him. Stitch yanked him back down.  
"I can't make an accurate replica with you movin' 'round like that!" Stitch admonished. Slick glared at him and got right back up. He walked into his bedroom to see Droog sitting on the edge of his bed, removing his shoes and looking unwell.  
_"Everything okay?"_ Slick meant to say.  
"Hey, that's my side of the bed! Get off!" Slick actually said. Droog launched a shoe at Slick's face. There was a loud _thwack_ as it collided with the door, which Slick shut just in time.  
"Hey! Want me to fix your hand not?" Stitch called out gruffly. "If you don't sit your fatass down right now, I can't promise I'll remember to put all your knuckles back." Slick returned to his seat, but kept an eye on the closed door.  
"Sheesh, alright, I'm here," Slick said, holding a hand out for Stitch to inspect and copy. "Never heard you say so many words at one time."  
"When I'm hungover, I get a little grumpy," Stitch grabbed Slick's hand and pulled the fingers back and forth.  
"Ya'd think it'd make you talk less," Slick commented. He looked back at the door. "The hell's wrong with Droog, anyway?"  
"Don't pay any attention to him" Stitch told him. "Just focus on not causing more trouble for yourself."  
"Hey!" Slick pulled his hand away and faced Stitch, an indignant fury blazing in his eyes. "Just because you hate him doesn't mean you can let him suffer! We're working together now, so if you won't help him, I will."

Slick got up yet again, and Stitch pulled him down yet again. This time, he was more gentle about it.  
"Kid, this ain't about hatred. Droog'll be fine. He probably just has a stomachache," Stitch assured. This only made Slick panic more.  
"What? How? Was the food tainted? Did anyone else-"  
"I'd say it's more a matter of quantity than quality."  
"Huh?" Slick thought about Stitch's words as he continued sewing. Then it hit him. He jumped back up and ran to his room so fast that Stitch didn't have the chance to stop him. Indeed, the sight greeting him when he entered was not one he would've expected to see: Droog sprawled out on the bed, nearly passed out. His pants were unzipped and his stomach exposed, and even lying flat, there was a small, but noticeable bulge to it. He hadn't heard Slick enter.  
"'Do try to control yourself tonight'!" Slick mocked, following up with a loud, "Ha!"

Droog's other shoe did not miss its target.


End file.
